The Beast in the Red Forest

Knowing that this place might be his home for several days to come, Vasko set about cleaning up the mess. Underneath the bunk, he found the man’s head, scorched and disfigured by the blast. He lifted it by the hair, so much heavier than he would have thought, and stared into its sightless eyes.

‘Mother of God,’ whispered Vasko, as he realised that it wasn’t Malashenko after all.

The head fell from his grasp and landed with a heavy thud upon the cabin floor.

‘It can’t be,’ he said to himself.

Praying that he might somehow be mistaken, Vasko stumbled over to the body in the chair. Fumbling with the shirt buttons, he reached under the blood-stiffened cloth and pulled out a flat oval disc made of dull grey zinc, still attached to the remains of a braided black and red cord which had once held the disc around the wearer’s neck. It was a standard German military dog tag, which all personnel were required to carry in the field, no matter what uniforms they wore while undertaking operations. One side of the tag was marked SS-SD. The other side bore a cryptic combination of letters and numbers: 2/4 Hauptamt. Bln. The dog tag had been perforated down the middle and the markings repeated on both sides. In the event that the soldier was killed, one half of the oval would be snapped off for graves registration, the second half remaining with the body. The information stamped into the metal ensured that agents could identify themselves to regular German troops when they crossed back over the lines. He studied the inscription. The word ‘Hauptamt’ stood for ‘headquarters’ and ‘Bln’ was the abbreviation for Berlin. This was the department of the SS to which all field agents were officially assigned. No regular soldier attached to SS Headquarters in Berlin would have found himself out here, behind the lines and wearing civilian clothes. Now Vasko knew that there could be no doubt. The dead man was Luther Benjamin.

Before he left on the mission, Vasko had been informed by Skorzeny that Benjamin had been assigned to rendezvous with him as soon as the mission was completed. But no such signal had been sent. Vasko couldn’t fathom why Benjamin would have set out anyway. That decision had cost the agent his life.

Vasko sat down on the bunk. He felt dizzy and sick, knowing what he had to do next. Abwehr protocol demanded that, in the event of an agent’s death in the field, all evidence of him, his identity and his mission must be destroyed.

Vasko stood, his head still spinning, and reached for a lantern behind the bunk. It had escaped the blast and was still filled with paraffin. Vasko grasped the lamp and raised it above his head, ready to smash it on the floor and then, with a single match, burn the cabin to the ground. But in that moment an idea came to him which focused all the chaos in his mind. Gently, so as not to spill a drop of fuel, he replaced the lantern on the ground.

‘Let him come,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Let Pekkala see what’s left of Peter Vasko.’

*

Down in the musty-smelling cellar, Pekkala was wondering how many soldiers he could take with him before the rest of them riddled the place with bullets.

Then he heard a strange sound, somewhere in the distance, like a big door being slammed shut.

Above them, one of the soldiers swore.

A few seconds later, there was a rumble, like a train passing through the air above them, and the house shook with a nearby explosion.

Two more thuds were followed by detonations.

‘What was that?’ whispered Kirov, as the dirt floor trembled beneath their feet.

‘Mortars,’ answered Pekkala.

‘Ours or theirs?’

‘Either one will kill us if we don’t get out of here,’ replied Pekkala.

Upstairs, the soldiers had reached the same conclusion. They sprinted from the building as more explosions shook the house, followed by a thump of stones and bricks and clods of earth as they rained down over the garden.

A second later, there was a shriek, like metal claws upon a blackboard. Smoke and dust rolled beneath the canvas tarp that separated the basement from the trench outside.

The explosions came so quickly now, one after the other, that they merged into a constant roar. To Pekkala, it felt as if a herd of cattle was stampeding through his brain.

Then, just when it seemed that nothing could survive under this terrible rain, the mortar barrage ceased.

At first, Kirov could barely hear anything above the ringing in his ears but, a short while later, he picked up the sound of the half-track as it rolled back towards the west. Before long, it had faded into the distance. And then there was only the sound of wounded men, baying like dogs beside the smoking craters which would soon become their graves.

‘What should we do now?’ asked Kirov, his own voice reaching him as if muffled beneath layers of cotton wool.

‘I think it might be best to run like hell,’ replied Pekkala.

They climbed out through the trench and sprinted across the snow-clogged grass, heading for the safety of the garrison.

The two men had not gone far when they heard the sound of another engine, this one much smaller than the half-track, but headed straight towards them. Cautiously, Kirov peered around the corner of a building. ‘It’s Sergeant Zolkin!’ Stepping out into the road, Kirov was almost run over by the newly repaired Jeep, which skidded to a stop in front of him.

‘Quickly!’ shouted Zolkin. ‘We’re expecting a counter-attack any minute.’

They piled in and Zolkin wheeled the Jeep around. Crashing through the gears as he raced back towards the garrison, the vehicle slalomed around the shattered bodies of soldiers, some of them blown out of their clothes by the force of the explosions. Outside the old hotel, two soldiers dragged aside a barbed wire barricade just in time to let them pass and the Jeep roared into the courtyard.

As Pekkala clambered out, he stared up at the shattered windows and the bullet-pocked walls. Here and there, he could see a rifle pointing from a room. Through an open doorway, he watched as wounded men, trailing the bloody pennants of hastily applied field bandages, were being carried down into the basement of the building.

‘They’ve hit us twice already,’ said Zolkin. ‘If it hadn’t been for the mortars, they would have made it past the barricade.’

‘Where did the mortars come from?’ asked Kirov. ‘I don’t see any in position here.’

Zolkin shook his head. ‘They weren’t ours. Those rounds came in from somewhere on the other side of town. We think it might be a Red Army relief column approaching on the road from Kolodenka. Commander Chaplinsky has been trying to make radio contact with them, but so far without success. With luck, they might get here before the next attack.’

He had barely finished speaking when they heard the clatter of enemy machine guns and the monstrous squeaking of tracked vehicles, somewhere out beyond the barricades. The Langemarck Division had returned.

‘So much for the relief column,’ muttered Zolkin. ‘It looks as if we’re on our own.’

Commander Chaplinsky met them in the doorway of the garrison. His face was blackened with gun smoke, making his teeth seem unnaturally white. Behind him, in what had once been a grand foyer, three exhausted soldiers sprawled on an ornately upholstered couch which had been dragged out into the open. Others lay around them on the floor, oblivious to the jigsaw puzzles of broken window glass beneath them. The worn-down hobnails on their boots gleamed as if pearls and not steel had been set into the dirty leather soles.

‘Find yourself a gun.’ Chaplinsky gestured towards a heap of rifles belonging to those who were now being treated in an improvised dressing station in the old luggage room of the hotel. ‘We’re going to need everyone who can pull a trigger.’ As he spoke, some of the more lightly wounded soldiers emerged from the dressing station, took up their weapons and returned to their posts.

Kirov and Pekkala each picked up an abandoned rifle and made their way along the hall until they found an empty room. The windows had been smashed out and furniture lay piled into the corner. Spent rifle cartridges and the grey cloth covers of Russian army field dressings littered the floor where a man had been wounded in the last assault.

‘From the look of things here,’ said Kirov, ‘this might not be the best place to make a stand.’

‘If you know of a better one, go to it,’ answered Pekkala.

With a grunt of resignation, Kirov sat down on the floor with his back against the wall.

Pekkala stared through the empty window frame, eyes fixed upon the horizon, where dust churned up by the fighting dirtied the pale blue sky. ‘He’s out there,’ Pekkala said quietly.

‘Who?’ asked Kirov as he checked his rifle’s magazine to see if it was loaded.

‘The assassin,’ replied Pekkala.

‘And so is half the German army, Inspector. Are you trying to tell me you’re still fixated on arresting a single man?’

Pekkala turned and studied him. ‘That is exactly what I’m telling you.’

‘You’re going to get us both killed,’ said Kirov. ‘Do you realise that, Inspector?’

‘If we worried about the risks every time we set out to find a criminal, we would never arrest anyone.’

Kirov laughed bitterly. ‘Elizaveta was telling the truth.’

‘The truth about what?’ asked Pekkala.

‘About you! About this!’ He kicked out with his heel, sending spent cartridges jangling across the floor. ‘Wherever you go, death follows in your path.’

‘She said that?’

‘Yes,’ answered Kirov.

‘And you believed her?’

‘I just told you I did.’

‘Then why the devil did you come out here to find me?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘To prove that she was right?’

‘I didn’t come here because of what she said!’ shouted Kirov. ‘I came here in spite of it.’

There was no time for Pekkala to reply. He ducked for cover as a stream of tracer fire arced towards them from a gap in a stone wall across the street. Bullets spattered against the walls, raising a cloud of plaster dust.

‘Here they come,’ muttered Kirov.

*

Malashenko approached his cabin in the woods. After finding the cabin deserted, Malashenko had returned to Rovno, intending to meet Pekkala at the safe house, as he had promised to do. But no sooner had he reached the outskirts of the town when an attack began from the west. With machine gunfire whip-cracking in the air above him and mortars falling in the nearby streets, Malashenko realised that the enemy must have broken through and that he had wandered right into the fighting. Leaving Pekkala and the commissar to fend for themselves, he ran for his life back towards the cabin, the only place he could think of where he might be safe.

He did not expect to find Vasko there. By now, Malashenko was convinced that the Abwehr agent had already gone, having accomplished what he came to do. The thought that he had been cheated out of his bar of gold filled Malashenko with barely containable rage.

But when Malashenko arrived at the little shack, with its mildewed log walls and crooked tar-paper roof, he was stunned to discover that, in the few hours he’d been gone, all the windows had been knocked out. ‘Vasko!’ he shouted. ‘Vasko, are you there?’

‘Yes,’ said a voice behind him.

Malashenko spun around as Vasko stepped out from behind a tree, a Tokarev pistol in his hand.

‘I didn’t think you were coming back,’ the partisan remarked nervously.

‘Then you were mistaken, Malashenko.’

‘What the hell happened to my cabin?’

‘Somebody touched something they shouldn’t have.’

‘Well, it wasn’t me!’

‘I know,’ Vasko said calmly. ‘Because if it had been, you would be the one lying in pieces on the floor instead of somebody else.’

‘Pieces?’ Malashenko glanced in through the cabin’s open door. A headless body slumped in a chair against the wall. The walls were painted with blood. With nausea rising in his throat, Malashenko backed away. ‘Listen,’ he told Vasko. ‘There is something you should know. Pekkala is looking for you. Pekkala, the Emerald-’

Vasko cut him off. ‘I know exactly who Pekkala is.’

‘Then you know it’s only a matter of time before he finds you.’

‘That is exactly what I intend for him to do.’

He’s gone mad, thought Malashenko. Maybe he was from the start. Malashenko would have shot Vasko by now, but his sub-machine gun was slung across his back and he knew he’d never get to it before Vasko pulled the trigger on his pistol. Instead, he tried to reason with the man. ‘And when he does catch you, after what you’ve done-’

‘Oh, he won’t catch me,’ Vasko assured him. ‘You and I will see to that.’

‘You can leave me out of it!’ snapped Malashenko. ‘I already helped you. I did everything you asked of me.’ He held out one dirty hand. ‘You owe me that bar of gold.’

‘And you will have it,’ said Vasko, ‘but I require one small additional favour from you.’

‘What kind of favour?’ demanded Malashenko.

‘I would like you to bring Pekkala here.’

‘So that you can add another to your list of murders? You don’t understand. I have orders to protect the Inspector, as well as his assistant Major Kirov.’

‘Orders from whom?’

‘From Barabanschikov himself,’ replied Malashenko. ‘If anything happens to them it will be on my shoulders! In the meantime, I’m supposed to be helping them catch you.’

Vasko smiled. ‘Then they will be pleased when you report to them that you found me lying dead in your cabin.’

For a moment, Malashenko just stared in confusion, but as the seconds passed, he began to understand Vasko’s thinking. ‘The body in the cabin,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll think it’s you.’

‘When they find the pieces of my radio, along with other evidence, they’ll have no reason to think otherwise.’

‘And then you can get away clean,’ said Malashenko, marvelling at the beautiful symmetry of Vasko’s plan, ‘because nobody looks for a man they think is lying dead in front of them. Barabanschikov will be pleased, Pekkala will thank me. .’ then Malashenko paused. ‘But how will I convince them it is you?’

Vasko thought for a second, then he removed a spare Tokarev magazine from his pocket, pushed out one of the special soft-point rounds and tossed it to Malashenko. ‘Just show him this. He’ll know what it means. Go now, and the quicker you get back here with Pekkala, the sooner that gold will be yours.’

Malashenko needed no further encouragement. He turned and started walking down the trail to Rovno. Gradually, his walking pace picked up into a steady trot. Then, with thoughts of gold swimming in his brain, Malashenko broke into a run.

*

From somewhere beyond the barricade came the sound of a tank engine. A moment later, a German Jagdpanzer, normally used for destroying other armoured vehicles, appeared from around a corner.

Their faces masked with plaster dust, Kirov and Pekkala began firing at the vehicle, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off its front armour.

With no support, and no anti-tank weapons, the men in the garrison knew it was only a matter of time before the enemy made their final assault on the building. In the room-to-room combat that would follow, there would be no hope of surrender. It would be a fight to the death.

‘Why didn’t you marry Elizaveta?’ asked Pekkala.

‘You want to talk about that now?’ Kirov asked incredulously.

‘There may not be another time,’ said Pekkala.

‘How can I marry her,’ asked Kirov, ‘when the odds are I’d make her a widow long before we could grow old together?’

‘Do you love her?’

‘Yes! What of it?’

‘Then let her choose whether or not to take that risk. Your job is to stay alive. Hers is to trust that you will.’

‘That’s some advice, coming from a man who sent his own fiancée away to Paris as soon as the Revolution broke out! She wanted to stay and be near you, but you forced her to go.’

‘And I have regretted it every day since. Do not postpone happiness, Kirov. That has been the most costly lesson of my life.’

The building shuddered as a shell from the tank smashed into the upper storeys of the hotel. Soldiers accompanying the armoured vehicle crouched in the doorways of wrecked buildings, shooting at anything that moved in the hotel.

The Jagdpanzer backed up slowly as it manoeuvred for another shot.

With a sound like a whipcrack, a bullet passed just over Kirov’s head and smashed what was left of the light fixture hanging from the middle of the room.

Pekkala watched the barrel of the tank rising as it took aim. It seemed to be pointing straight at him. Slowly, he lowered his gun, knowing it was useless to keep fighting against such a machine. ‘I’m sorry, Kirov,’ he said. ‘I should never have brought you to this place.’

‘I would have come here anyway,’ answered Kirov.

Then came a deafening roar, following by the squeal of the tank’s engine and then another explosion, this one more muffled than the first.

The top hatch of the tank disappeared as a bolt of fire erupted from the turret. Black smoke poured from the engine grille and fire coughed out of the exhaust stacks.

At that same moment, Pekkala caught sight of a small grey cloud sifting upwards from the rubble of a building. A man emerged, still carrying the arm-length, sand-coloured tube of a Panzerfaust anti-tank weapon. At first, Pekkala could not understand why the vehicle had been destroyed by what appeared to be one of its own people, but then he realised that the man was a partisan. Just as he was wondering where the man had come from, and where he could have come by such a weapon, a terrible cry went up from the ruins, and more partisans began to pour into the street.

‘Where did they come from?’ asked Kirov, who had joined Pekkala at the window sill.

The soldiers, who had been ready to make their final assault on the garrison, began to pull back. But they were quickly overwhelmed by the mass of charging partisans, who seemed to number in their hundreds. In minutes, the SS men were running for their lives, leaving behind the smouldering hulk of their tank.

Deafened and coughing the dust from their lungs, Pekkala and Kirov stumbled their way out into the street. The air was filled with a metallic reek of broken flint from cobblestones crushed by the heavy iron tank tracks.

All around them, Red Army soldiers emerged from hiding places behind the coils of barbed wire which marked their last line of defence.

Partisans milled about in the road. Having driven off the attackers, they seemed unsure what to do next.

Among these men, Pekkala recognised members of the Barabanschikov Atrad. But there were others, many others, whom Pekkala had not seen before. Then he knew that Barabanschikov had somehow managed to do what might have seemed impossible only days before — he had gathered the Atrads together.

The soldiers approached, stepping carefully over the smashed bricks.

The partisans watched them come on, smoke still drifting from their weapons.

Warily, the two sides watched each other.

Just when it seemed as if they might start shooting at each other, one of the Red Army soldiers slung his rifle on his back. As seconds passed, others followed his example. Some even laid their guns upon the ground and, as if driven by a wordless command, walked forward with their arms held out in gratitude to the men who had just saved their lives.

*

When Malashenko arrived at the safe house, he found the doors open and the building empty. There seemed to be only two possibilities, neither of them good. Either Kirov and Pekkala had been killed or captured, or else they had escaped to the Red Army garrison. From what Malashenko could hear on his way into town, the Fascists were attacking the old hotel with everything they had, including, from the sound of it, a tank, against which the garrison had no defences. The shooting had stopped. Which means, thought Malashenko, that everyone inside that garrison is probably dead by now.

But even as these thoughts entered his mind, they were interrupted by the sound of cheering, which came from somewhere over by the garrison. Malashenko listened, mystified. Russian. There was no mistake, and it dawned on him that the Red Army must somehow have repelled the German attack. Malashenko set off towards the sound, his toes half-frozen in his soaked and worn-out boots as they splashed through the ankle-deep slush.

*

In the street outside the garrison, there was cheering, and even music. A soldier had brought out an accordion and was sitting on top of a large pile of bricks, serenading those who stood nearby. The barbed wire had been pulled aside and, in the place where the barricades had stood, soldiers and partisans danced shoulder to shoulder, their hobnailed boots kicking up sparks from the wet road.

The first person Pekkala and Kirov ran into was Sergeant Zolkin.

‘Not a scratch!’ he shouted, as he wrapped his arms around Pekkala.

‘Yes,’ remarked Pekkala, as he untangled himself from Zolkin’s embrace. ‘You were lucky.’

‘Not me!’ laughed Zolkin. ‘The Jeep! I thought it would be blown to bits, but it came through undamaged!’ Then he ran back towards the motor pool.

The next person they found was Commander Chaplinsky who, instead of enjoying his victory, was almost in hysterics.

‘What is wrong, Commander?’ asked Kirov. ‘Surely you have cause to celebrate!’

Chaplinsky held out a scrap of paper. ‘I just received this from Moscow.’

Gently, Kirov took the paper from his hands. ‘It’s an order from Headquarters in Moscow.’

‘What does it say?’ asked Pekkala.

‘The Rovno garrison is ordered to immediately commence liquidating all partisans in the Rovno area.’ Helplessly, Chaplinsky raised his hands and let them fall again. ‘But if it wasn’t for these partisans, none of us would have survived. What am I supposed to do?’

‘Do nothing for now,’ answered Pekkala. ‘Just give me a little time to find out where we stand.’

‘Very well,’ agreed Chaplinsky, ‘but you must hurry, Inspector. They are expecting an acknowledgement of the order and I cannot delay them for long.’

At that moment, Malashenko arrived from the safe house, red-faced and out of breath. ‘I found him,’ he managed to say. ‘The man who killed Andrich and Yakushkin. He was holed up at my cabin in the woods. I went there when the fighting started and couldn’t get back until now.’

‘He was at the cabin?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Where is he now, Malashenko?’

‘Still there, Inspector and he’s not going anywhere. He blew himself up with some kind of explosive. It must have been an accident.’

Pekkala paused. ‘Then how do you know it is him?’

From his pocket, Malashenko brought out the soft-pointed bullet Vasko had given him and held it out towards Pekkala. ‘I found this.’

Pekkala examined the bullet. ‘The same kind that was used to kill Andrich and Yakushkin.’

‘But you must come now, Inspector,’ Malashenko said urgently, ‘before someone else stumbles across the body.’

‘For once,’ said Kirov, ‘I agree with Malashenko.’

‘You go instead, Kirov,’ ordered Pekkala. ‘Find Zolkin and his Jeep and get there as fast as you can. Malashenko, you will show them the way.’

‘Shouldn’t you come too?’ blurted Malashenko, afraid that Vasko’s plan had suddenly begun to unravel. ‘You are the Inspector, after all.’

‘You will find the major every bit as capable,’ Pekkala assured him. ‘I have to find Barabanschikov, before this victory celebration turns into another massacre.’

‘But, Inspector. .’ Malashenko’s lips twitched as he hunted for the words which might change Pekkala’s mind.

‘Come along!’ Taking Malashenko by the arm, Kirov made his way back towards the motor pool, where Zolkin was still rejoicing at the survival of his beloved Jeep.

As Malashenko allowed himself to be led away, the lustre of the gold was already fading from his mind, replaced now by the fear of what Vasko would do to him when Pekkala failed to arrive.

The two men piled into the back of Sergeant Zolkin’s Jeep. Following Malashenko’s instructions, they drove east out of Rovno for several kilometres, before turning off the main road and continuing over a muddy trail, passing stacks of mildewed logs, readied long ago for transport to the mill, but left to rot instead.

The condition of the road grew worse and worse until at last it disappeared altogether in a large deep puddle. With water seeping into the footwells, Zolkin knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the air intake flooded, cold water poured into the hot engine and the cylinder head cracked from the sudden change in temperature. Then they would not only be stranded but the Jeep would likely be beyond repair.

‘We’ve gone as far as we can go,’ he announced. ‘You’ll have to continue on foot,’ Carefully, he backed up until the Jeep was once again on dry ground.

Kirov and the partisan waded through the deep puddle, leaving Zolkin to guard the Jeep.

Malashenko glanced about warily, knowing that Vasko must be somewhere close by.

‘Why are you so nervous?’ Kirov asked him. ‘The man’s dead, after all.’

‘If you knew what else was in these woods,’ replied Malashenko, ‘you’d be plenty nervous, too, Commissar.’

After a few minutes of tramping along the muddy path, they arrived at the cabin, which was so well-hidden that Kirov might have walked right past if Malashenko hadn’t told him where it was.

‘The body is in there?’ asked Kirov, as they approached the door.

‘Yes,’ replied Malashenko, ‘and I hope you have got a strong stomach.’

Inside the cabin, they found the body still slumped in the chair, which was tilted back against the wall. The severed head lay on the floor beside it.

Kirov reached up to the ceiling and plucked a strand of wire which had become embedded in the wood. ‘It looks to me as if he was preparing an explosive device and it went off by mistake. But who was it for?’

Malashenko shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Kirov, turning his attention to the dog tag still fastened around the dead man’s neck by a braided piece of string. Kirov removed the tag, scraped away the blood and examined the dull zinc oval.

‘SS,’ muttered Kirov. Only now did he understand who had been behind the attack on Colonel Andrich. He also understood why. The result of an all-out war between the Red Army and the partisans would have been chaos, giving the German army ample opportunity to retake the territory they had lost in this region. Kirov wondered if the agent had known how close he had come to succeeding.

As he paced nervously around the cabin, Malashenko caught sight of a Walther P38 pistol lying underneath the iron legs of the stove. It had belonged to Luther Benjamin and had been thrown there by the explosion. One of its reddish-black Bakelite grips had been cracked in the blast, but it was otherwise in good condition.

For men like Malashenko, weapons of that quality were hard to come by. When the major’s back was turned, he picked up the gun and stuck it in his belt.

By now, Kirov had turned his attention to the severed head, hoping to recognise the man from that night in the bunker, but much of the soft tissue — the ears, mouth and nose — had been blackened or burned away entirely by the explosion. This, combined with the fact that the man had been wearing a bandage on his face when he came to the bunker, forced Kirov to reach the conclusion that there was no chance of making a positive identification.

‘We should go,’ said Malashenko, peering out of the broken window into the maze of trees which lay beyond the cabin.

‘What is wrong with you?’ demanded Kirov. ‘If you can’t stand the sight of what’s in here, then go and wait outside until I have finished my search.’

‘You’ve seen enough,’ said Malashenko. ‘Now can’t we just get out of here?’

‘I’ll only be a few more minutes,’ said Kirov, trying to calm him down. ‘You can wait outside.’

Leaving Kirov to rummage through the gore, Malashenko stepped out of the cabin. Maybe Vasko has already gone, he thought to himself. Later, he knew, he would be miserable about the gold but, for now, all he wanted was to leave this place.

Then a figure appeared from the shadows, almost lost among the dark pillars of the trees.

It was Vasko. He gestured for Malashenko to join him.

Warily, the partisan approached, until the two stood face to face.

‘Where is Pekkala?’ Vasko whispered angrily.

‘He stayed behind in Rovno!’ Malashenko hissed in reply. ‘He sent that commissar instead. I swear there was nothing I could do.’

‘That’s not what we agreed. You still want that gold, don’t you?’

‘But how on earth can I persuade him?’

‘I leave that to you, Malashenko. Reason with Pekkala. Beg him. Bring him at gunpoint if you have to, or I swear it will be you that I come looking for.’ With those words, he stepped back into the forest and disappeared.

In the cabin, Kirov had turned out the dead man’s pockets, in which he found a German infantry compass, a wood-handled pocket knife and a cigarette lighter engraved with the word ‘Zagreb’.

Malashenko came and stood in the doorway. He looked pale and sick. ‘Satisfied?’ he asked.

‘All right.’ Kirov took one last look at the blood-spattered walls. ‘Let’s get back to Rovno and tell Pekkala what we’ve found.’

‘Gladly,’ replied Malashenko.

With feet freezing in their sodden boots, the men returned to where Zolkin waited with the Jeep. Soon they were on their way to Rovno, jolting along over the potholed road.

*

After a short search, Pekkala caught up with Barabanschikov at the wreckage of the Jagdpanzer, where the partisan leader was supervising the removal of a machine gun from the driver’s compartment. Through the open hatch in the front hull, one partisan handed out gleaming brass belts of ammunition to another man, who gathered them like a dead snake in his arms and carried them away to Barabanschikov’s truck.

‘I see that you’ve wasted no time in gathering the spoils of battle,’ said Pekkala.

‘With any luck,’ replied Barabanschikov, ‘we won’t need them for much longer.’

‘The commander of the garrison would like to offer you his thanks.’

‘All I ask in return,’ replied Barabanschikov, slinging the belt over his shoulder, ‘is that we be allowed to get on with our lives. For that, you can tell him, every partisan in this region is prepared to lay down his arms.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You have spoken to the other bands?’

Barabanschikov nodded. ‘On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘That the promises made by Colonel Andrich will be kept.’

‘You will have those promises,’ said Pekkala.

‘Not from you, my friend,’ said Barabanschikov, resting his hand upon Pekkala’s shoulder, ‘although I do not doubt your good intentions. Let me stand before the leader of this country and hear him make those guarantees in person. Otherwise, they’re just the words of other men.’

‘Moscow is a long way from here,’ said Pekkala, ‘and do you really think that looking Stalin in the eye will make a difference?’

Barabanschikov swept his hand towards the crowd of partisans. ‘It makes a difference to them. To know that I have actually spoken with Stalin carries more weight than anything that you or I, or anyone sent here to speak for him, could ever say. You know these people, Pekkala. You have shared their suffering. You know they deserve nothing less.’

Pekkala nodded in agreement. ‘I will notify Moscow immediately.’

*

‘A telegram!’ shouted Poskrebychev. As he knocked on the door to Stalin’s study, he was already entering the room. ‘A message has arrived from Rovno!’

‘Finally,’ growled Stalin. Although it was a sunny day, he had drawn the curtains, shutting out all but a few stray bands of light which had worked their way in past the heavy sheets of red velvet. ‘And what does Kirov have to say?’

‘The message is not from Kirov, Comrade Stalin. This one is from Pekkala!’

‘Give it to me!’ Stalin held out his hand, snapping his fingers until Poskrebychev was close enough to have the message torn from his grasp. For a while, there was silence as he studied the telegram. Finally, Stalin spoke. ‘He says partisans have agreed to lay down their guns, on condition that I meet personally with their leader, Barabanschikov.’

‘And will you meet with him, Comrade Stalin?’

Stalin scratched thoughtfully at his neck, fingernails dragging across the scars of old pockmarks. ‘Send word to the garrison in Rovno. Tell them to call off the attack. And have a plane dispatched immediately to the nearest airfield so that Barabanschikov can be transported back to Moscow, along with Major Kirov and Pekkala. Tell the leader of these partisans that I will meet with him, if that is the price of their allegiance.’

‘At once, Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev clicked his heels, then turned and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind him. No sooner had he returned to his desk than the intercom buzzed. Poskrebychev leaned over and pressed a well-worn button. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Once the plane is in the air,’ Stalin told him, ‘have the pilot maintain strict radio silence until they reach Moscow. Air-to-ground messages can be intercepted by the enemy and I don’t want anyone shooting them down before they get here!’

*

Ten hours later an American-made DC9, on loan to the Red Air Force, landed at the Obarov airfield. The aircraft had been on its way from Kiev to the Arctic port of Arkhangelsk with a cargo of submarine propellers when, on emergency orders from the Kremlin, it was diverted to the small airfield outside Rovno. The heavily loaded plane landed hard on the short runway, which drew gasps of morbid fascination from the onlookers, followed by wild applause when the aircraft, smoke pouring from its brakes and engines screaming in reverse, finally managed to stop, only a dozen paces from the tree line.

Earlier that day, Kirov had returned from the cabin and reported his findings to Pekkala, who agreed that the assassin, whoever he was, had been killed in the explosion. Now that the case was closed, they immediately turned their attention to the business of transporting Barabanschikov to Moscow.

The pilot of the cargo plane, wearing heavy brown overalls lined with sheepskin, climbed down from the cockpit. Warily, he looked out at the jumbled assortment of clothing, weapons and head gear of this ragged welcoming committee. Some appeared to be Red Army, while others, judging from their uniforms, could have laid claim to membership in half a dozen nations. ‘Well, I can’t take all of you!’ he shouted.

Kirov stepped forward. ‘There are only three passengers.’

‘Four!’ announced Sergeant Zolkin, as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘I’m coming too, on the orders of Inspector Pekkala.’

‘Your new driver,’ Kirov muttered to Pekkala.

‘But what about your Jeep, Zolkin?’ asked Pekkala.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Zolkin turned and tossed the keys to Malashenko. ‘Looks like we both get our wish,’ he told the partisan.

Ever since he’d returned to the cabin, Malashenko had been pleading with Zolkin to transport him to Kiev. He had overheard Pekkala telling Kirov that the case was officially closed and realized there was no hope of persuading Pekkala to revisit the cabin. His only hope now was to get as far away from Vasko as he could. When Zolkin refused to drive him, Malashenko revised his destination to anywhere at all, as long as it was somewhere out of Rovno. In exchange, Malashenko offered the sergeant a lifetime supply of salt, to which Zolkin only shrugged and shook his head.

‘Now you can drive yourself!’ said Zolkin.

Clutching the keys tightly in his fist, Malashenko bowed his head in solemn gratitude. There would be no gold, but at least he might escape with his life.

Barabanschikov waved farewell to his men and climbed aboard.

Zolkin went next, clambering into the aircraft without so much as a backward glance, as if afraid that his luck might give out before the plane’s wheels left the ground.

Now only Kirov and Pekkala remained.

‘Be quick!’ called the pilot, as he beckoned to them.

Pekkala bid farewell to Malashenko, but as he shook hands with the man, Pekkala noticed the gun which Malashenko had tucked into his belt. ‘That Walther,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘At the cabin,’ replied Malashenko, not thinking fast enough to lie. ‘It belonged to the dead man. It was lying on the floor, so I took it.’

‘But the gun used to kill Colonel Andrich was 7.62 mm,’ said Pekkala. ‘A Walther P38 takes 9-mm ammunition.’

Malashenko was barely listening. His thoughts were focused on the idea that Pekkala might try to confiscate the gun as evidence for his investigation. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said defiantly, ‘it’s the least that bastard could part with after blowing my cabin to bits.’

But Kirov understood. ‘Do you think there might have been two agents?’

Pekkala turned to Malashenko. ‘That bullet you gave to Major Kirov. Are you certain it came from the cabin?’

‘Of course I am certain!’ spluttered Malashenko, as panic swirled through his mind. Does he suspect? he wondered. Are they accusing me? ‘Maybe he had two guns. So what?’

Pekkala shook his head. ‘It is unlikely that he would have been carrying two pistols, of different calibres. If there is another agent, the fact that he abandoned his colleague without trying to conceal any of the evidence means that he left in a hurry. He may even have been wounded, in which case he might not have gone far. Whatever the answer, the cabin must be searched again for any sign that the dead agent might not have been there by himself.’

‘But, Inspector,’ Kirov protested, ‘Stalin himself has ordered us back to Moscow and the plane is about to depart!’

‘That is why you must be on it,’ Pekkala told him. ‘Deliver Barabanschikov to the Kremlin. Tell Stalin that I will head for Moscow as soon as I have some answers. In the meantime, Malashenko and I will return to the cabin to search for more evidence.’

Hearing this, Malashenko could scarcely believe his good fortune. ‘I will take us there at once!’ he said, holding up the keys to Zolkin’s Jeep.

Minutes later, with Kirov aboard, the plane taxied for take-off. Its engines roaring, the machine rolled slowly forward, gathering speed until the wheels lifted off the ground and folded upwards into the belly of the fuselage. It climbed and climbed, the sounds of the motors already fading, until it vanished completely in the clouds.

By then, Malashenko and Pekkala were already on their way to the cabin.

The crowd had begun to disperse, walking back along the road to Rovno. The celebration was over now, replaced by a sense of uncertainty about what lay ahead. Soldier and partisan alike knew that, with one message from Moscow, they might all become enemies again.

*

‘Another telegram, Comrade Stalin.’ Poskrebychev stepped into the office. ‘The pilot of the cargo plane has radioed to say that he has taken off and is now en route to Moscow.’

‘Good!’ said Stalin. ‘It’s time we had Pekkala back again.’

With a pained expression on his face, Poskrebychev stepped forward and placed a piece of paper on Stalin’s desk. ‘As you will see, Comrade Stalin, the passenger manifest does not include Pekkala’s name. It appears that he is not on the plane.’

‘What?’ gasped Stalin, snatching up the manifest.

‘I’m sure there is some logical explanation,’ Poskrebychev said hopefully.

Stalin crumpled up the message and bounced it off Poskrebychev’s chest. ‘Of course there is, you fool! He has defied me yet again!’

‘Surely not,’ muttered Poskrebychev.

‘Well, radio the plane and find out!’ bellowed Stalin.

Poskrebychev swallowed. ‘They will be out of radio contact until the plane arrives in Moscow. Those were your orders, Comrade Stalin.’

Stalin smashed both fists upon his desk, causing his brass ashtray to leap into the air, spilling dozens of cigarette butts and the grey dust of tobacco ash. ‘That Finnish bastard! That black-hearted troll!’

‘The flight is scheduled to take about twelve hours. Only twelve hours, Comrade Stalin.’

‘Only? That’s time enough for him to disappear again. No, Poskrebychev.’ Stalin wagged one stubby finger back and forth, like a miniature windscreen wiper. ‘I have no intention of waiting. Get me Akhatov.’

‘Akhatov? The Siberian? The. .’

‘You know who he is. Now just get him, and make sure to have a fast plane standing by, ready to transport him to Rovno.’

‘But. .’ Poskrebychev’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish pulled from the water.

‘Go!’ screamed Stalin.

Without another word, Poskrebychev scrambled from the room and shut the door.

Alone now, Stalin settled back into his chair. He rubbed his face, leaving red streaks in the pockmarked skin. The anger he felt was almost as great as his confusion. Pekkala’s refusal to return to Moscow was, for Stalin, not only baffling but personal. More than once, he had extended the hand of friendship to the Emerald Eye, but never with any success. Others would have killed for such an offer of comradeship.

That Stalin had tried several times to murder Pekkala was not, in his own mind, mutually exclusive to the friendship he had hoped to kindle. One of the reasons Stalin had remained in power was that he had always been prepared to liquidate anyone. Whether they were friends or family made no difference. For Stalin, power and friendship did not overlap and the mistaken belief that they did had cost many people their lives. He had always thought that a man of Pekkala’s intelligence would understand such a thing. Apparently, thought Stalin, I have been mistaken.

Although Stalin could barely admit it, even to himself, he was jealous of Major Kirov and Pekkala, of the cramped office they shared and the banter of their conversations, to which he often listened through the bugging devices he had ordered to be installed. He envied the meals they cooked on Friday afternoons. With his mouth watering at the sound of the cutlery clinking on their plates he would fetch out one of several tins of sardines in olive oil and tomato sauce, which he always kept on hand in his desk drawer. Tucking a handkerchief into his collar, Stalin would eat the sardines with his bare hands, spitting the bones back into the tin. Now and then, he would pause to adjust the headphones with his greasy, fish-scaled fingers, all the while snuffling with laughter at the jokes which passed between Kirov and Pekkala.

In spite of everything, he had missed the Emerald Eye. Yes, it was true that, after the Amber Room incident, he had ordered Pekkala to be liquidated immediately. It was also true that he had commanded Special Operations to begin surveillance upon Major Kirov, in the futile hope that the great Inspector might make himself known to his assistant. But things were different now. Stalin’s rage had subsided and, until today, he had felt ready to purge this from the tally sheet that he kept inside his head of the many snubs, real or imagined, but both equally damning, which he had received over the years. In the case of Pekkala, it was a very long list, in fact unequalled by anyone still living. To forgo the satisfaction of punishment was a gift more valuable than any Stalin had given out before, which made Pekkala’s disappearance all the more wounding to his pride.

Now, with this most recent news, the anger had returned. Stalin would have his vengeance. Akhatov was coming. He had summoned the dragon from its lair.

A moment later, the door swung open and there stood Poskrebychev, his face a mask of bewilderment, as if his limbs had brought him there against his will.

Stalin fixed him with a stare. ‘What is it, Poskrebychev?’

‘Why, Comrade Stalin?’ he whispered. ‘Why Akhatov? Why bring that monster to the Kremlin?’

To Poskrebychev’s astonishment, Stalin did not evict him from the room amid a fresh barrage of curses. Instead, he considered the question for a moment before resting his knuckles on the desk top and heaving himself to his feet. ‘Come here to me, Poskrebychev,’ he said, and in his voice there was an unfamiliar gentleness, almost like pity, like that of a man speaking to an old and faithful animal which he is about to put down. As Poskrebychev approached, his eyes walled with fear, Stalin walked out from behind the desk and rested his hand upon his secretary’s shoulder.

To Poskrebychev, the weight of that hand felt like a sack of concrete.

Stalin walked him across the room to the window which looked out over Red Square. As was his custom, Stalin himself stood to one side of the window, unwilling to show his face to anyone who might be looking up from below. ‘I want you to understand something,’ he began.

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin,’ replied Poskrebychev, too terrified to speak above a whisper.

‘In spite of our differences,’ explained Stalin, ‘Inspector Pekkala and I have shared one common goal — the survival of this country. Under such circumstances, old enemies like the Inspector and I can learn to work together, even to trust each other. But there are limits to this partnership. There are only so many times that warlock can thumb his nose at me and get away with it!’

Poskrebychev opened his mouth. He had no idea what words to choose, but he felt he must say something in defence of the Emerald Eye, no matter what it cost him in the end.

But at that moment Stalin’s hand, which was still resting upon his shoulder, suddenly dug into the flesh around Poskrebychev’s collarbone, causing the frail man to gasp with pain.

‘That may not be the way you see it,’ Stalin continued, ‘but it’s the way I see it. And the way I see it is the way it is. Do you understand me now, Poskrebychev?’

This time, Poskrebychev could only nod.

At last, Stalin’s hand slipped from its perch. Soundless in his kidskin boots, he returned to his desk and removed a cardboard box of cigarettes from the top pocket of his tunic.

For a moment longer, Poskrebychev remained at the window, looking out over Red Square and unable to shake the sensation that he was being watched. He felt certain that, somewhere out there among the rooftops of the city, the eyes of a stranger were upon him. Instinctively, he stepped to one side, behind the thick red velvet curtain.

‘It’s out there, isn’t it?’ There was the rustle of a match as Stalin lit a cigarette.

Poskrebychev turned to face his master. ‘I beg your pardon, Comrade Stalin?’

Holding the match between his thumb and index finger, Stalin waved it lazily from side to side until the flame disappeared in a ribbon of smoke.

‘You heard me,’ he replied.

Back at his desk, Poskrebychev took out a clean sheet of paper and wound it into the typewriter, an American Smith and Brothers model no.3, fitted with Cyrillic lettering, a personal gift to Poskrebychev from Ambassador Davies. Poskrebychev folded his hands together and then, extending his arms, bent his fingers backwards until they cracked. He paused for a moment, fingertips hovering above the machine. Slowly, he typed out the name ‘Akhatov’ and under the heading he wrote ‘Lost Cat’, the code word agreed upon between Stalin and the agent, to signal his immediate summons to the Kremlin. And then the room filled with a sound like miniature gunfire as his fingertips raced across the keys. Within minutes, Poskrebychev had completed the message and it was taken by courier to the Kremlin telegraph office for immediate dispatch. He then ordered a plane to be fuelled and placed on standby at an airfield just outside the city. The fastest one available was a Lavochkin fighter, specially outfitted with two seats for use as a training aircraft.

When hours passed without reply, Poskrebychev allowed himself to hope that perhaps the Siberian might have moved on beyond the Kremlin’s reach. After all, it had been several years since Stalin had required the services of the notorious Siberian. But just as he was preparing to go home for the day, one of the Kremlin guards called the office.

‘There’s someone here,’ said the guard. ‘He won’t give his name. He says it’s about a lost cat. Should I just throw him out?’

‘No,’ sighed Poskrebychev. ‘Send him up.’

It was not long before a heavy-set man entered Stalin’s outer office, which was Poskrebychev’s personal domain. He had a mop of curly brown hair, a hooked Roman nose and cheerful, ruddy cheeks. He wore a belted raincoat and old-fashioned black ankle boots which fastened with buttons. Under his arm, he carried a brown paper parcel tied with string.

‘Akhatov,’ said Poskrebychev, as if quietly uttering a curse.

The man nodded at the door to Stalin’s office. ‘Should I go straight in?’

‘Yes. He is expecting you.’

Stalin was sitting at the small table in the corner of his study where he took his meals and morning tea. The table had a round, brass top, engraved with a prayer in Arabic. Stalin had spotted the table on display at the Hermitage museum and had ordered it brought to the Kremlin. ‘It’s just the size I want,’ he told the bewildered museum curator.

In front of Stalin was a glass of tea, supported in a brass holder. Also on the table was a small bowl filled with rock sugar, which resembled fragments of a broken bottle. Stalin set one of these pieces between his teeth and sipped at the tea as he gestured for Akhatov to take a seat in the chair on the other side of the little table.

Poskrebychev, meanwhile, had switched on the intercom so that he could overhear what was being said in Stalin’s room.

‘How may I be of service, Comrade Stalin?’ asked Akhatov.

‘In the usual way,’ he replied.

Barely able to make out what was being said, Poskrebychev leaned closer and closer to the dust-clogged pores of the intercom speaker. Then, in frustration, he picked up the whole machine and pressed it against his ear.

‘Who is it this time, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Pekkala.’

‘The Inspector?’

‘You sound surprised, Akhatov.’

‘I heard he was already dead.’

‘That appears to have been wishful thinking.’

‘I see,’ said Akhatov. ‘And where is the Inspector now?’

‘In a town called Rovno in western Ukraine.’

‘That must be near the front line.’

‘It is the front line, Akhatov.’

‘Then how am I to get there?’

‘My secretary will drive you to an airfield outside Moscow, where a plane is standing by. It will fly you directly to Rovno. As soon as you land, you must move quickly, Akhatov. Every hour that goes by will make Pekkala more difficult to find.’

‘I understand,’ said Akhatov.

‘You have come prepared?’

Akhatov held up the parcel. ‘Everything I need is here, Comrade Stalin.’ There was the groan of a chair moving back across the floor as Akhatov rose to his feet. He was about to leave, but then he paused. ‘If I might ask, Comrade Stalin, why not use someone from Special Operations, especially for a mission like this?’

‘Because it is Pekkala!’ roared Stalin. ‘And the men of Special Operations all but worship him. I cannot count on them to carry out the task. That is why I called upon you, Akhatov, because you worship nothing but the money I will pay you for your work.’

‘But why must it be done at all, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Yes,’ whispered Poskrebychev in the other room. ‘Why? For the love of God, why?’ His arms ached from the effort of holding the bulky intercom, but he did not dare let go for fear of missing a single word.

‘My reasons are none of your concern,’ said Stalin. ‘I am not paying you to have a conscience, Akhatov. All I ask is that you do it quickly and cleanly and that you leave no trace behind which could connect your actions to the Kremlin.’

*

The Jeep pulled up outside the cabin. Its stubborn Detroit engine had kept running, in spite of having driven through a series of puddles, which had soaked the driving compartment, as well as the feet of its passengers.

Pekkala climbed out of the vehicle and walked towards the cabin. ‘You built this yourself?’ he asked, admiring its solid construction.

Malashenko, who was walking just ahead of him, turned and smiled and opened his mouth, ready to take credit for it all.

At that moment, Vasko stepped out from behind the cabin, the Tokarev in his hand.

‘Get down!’ Pekkala shouted as he drew his gun.

Malashenko turned to face the agent. ‘No!’ he shouted, raising his hands.

Vasko pulled the trigger.

The first round struck Malashenko square in the chest. Two more bullets had punched through his ribcage by the time he collapsed into Pekkala’s arms. The next shot sounded dull and flat. A burst of sparks sprayed from the Tokarev. The gun had misfired. Vasko tried to chamber a new round, but a cartridge had jammed in the ejection port.

Vasko raised his head and found himself staring down the barrel of Pekkala’s Webley.

Malashenko lay on the ground between them. He was already dead, the pale blue sky reflected in his half-open eyes.

‘Did they not tell you in Berlin,’ asked Pekkala, ‘that soft-point bullets are a frequent cause of misfired ammunition?’

Cursing, Vasko tried once more to work the slide of the Tokarev.

Pekkala set his thumb upon the hammer of the Webley, drawing it back with a click so that even the slightest pressure on the trigger would cause the gun to fire.

Vasko heard that click. He knew it was useless to go on. Slowly, he breathed out, and then tossed the gun away. It landed with a soft thump upon the pine-needled ground. ‘Inspector Pekkala,’ he said.

‘Who are you?’ asked Pekkala.

‘My name is Peter Vasko.’

‘Who sent you? Was it Skorzeny or Himmler himself?’

‘Neither,’ answered Vasko. ‘My orders come from Admiral Canaris.’

‘You killed Andrich?’

Vasko nodded. ‘That’s what Canaris sent me here to do.’

‘Then why didn’t you leave when you still could?’

‘Because I wasn’t finished yet,’ he replied. ‘I swore to kill you too, Pekkala, before this war even began.’

A flicker of confusion passed over Pekkala’s face.

‘I don’t expect that you recall the name William Vasko. Or his wife. Or his daughter, or his son, who stands before you now? I am all that’s left of a family that set sail from America in the summer of 1936, hoping to escape the Great Depression and with a promise of a better life in Russia.’

Vasko, thought Pekkala, as the face of a terrified man shimmered into focus. Pekkala saw him again, sitting on a metal chair in an interrogation room at Lubyanka. His nose had been broken during previous interrogations. Some of his teeth had been knocked out and his scalp was dotted with open sores, the result of being struck by a man wearing a heavy ring. ‘I do remember him,’ he said. ‘He was a spy at the Novgorod Motor Plant.’

‘My father was no spy!’ hissed Vasko. ‘Just an ordinary assemblyman at a car factory.’

‘That’s not all he was,’ replied Pekkala.

‘And who would he be spying on, Inspector?’

‘His fellow workers at the plant.’

‘For who? America?’

Pekkala shook his head. ‘Russian Internal Security.’

‘You are lying!’ Vasko insisted. ‘Those men came to start a new life. Why would they spy on each other?’

‘That new life they found,’ explained Pekkala, ‘was not what they had been expecting. There was talk of a strike at the plant, and Internal Security needed a man on the inside to keep them informed.’

‘My father would never have allowed himself to be recruited as a Russian agent.’

‘He wasn’t recruited,’ said Pekkala. ‘It was your father who approached them, offering to deliver information, for a price.’

‘That is all lies!’ screamed Vasko.

‘What reason would I have for lying to you now?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Look who is holding the gun.’

‘If he was their informant, why would they have arrested him?’

‘The Americans at the plant realised that someone among them was spying for the Russians. When your father guessed that they suspected him, he panicked. He went to the local office of Internal Security and requested that they transfer him to another factory in a different part of Russia. But by then he had become a valuable asset to Russian Intelligence, and his request for transfer was denied. Your father was trapped. He couldn’t stay, but neither was he allowed to leave. Believing that his life was in danger, he tried the only thing that he could think of, which was to get back to the United States with his family. Unfortunately for your father, his letters to friends in America, in which he described his plan, were intercepted. That’s why he was arrested and detained. And because he was acting as a paid informant, and possessed intelligence which Internal Security considered sensitive, his whereabouts were kept secret. Since your father was no longer employed at the factory, you, your mother and your sister were evicted from housing supplied to the workers. Your mother brought you to Moscow and contacted the American Embassy. Following a request from Ambassador Davies to locate your father, Stalin assigned me to the case.’

‘And you condemned us all to death.’

‘The truth is quite the opposite,’ insisted Pekkala. ‘When I discovered that your father was being held at Lubyanka, I immediately had him transferred to a proper holding cell. There, I interviewed him personally in order to learn the details of the case. I also travelled to Novgorod and spoke to people who had known him at the plant. What they had to say confirmed his story. I wrote up a report, advising that he be repatriated to the United States, along with his entire family. If my instructions had been followed, you and your family would have been back in America long ago. I assumed that’s what had taken place, since my involvement with the case ended there.’

‘My father didn’t reach America,’ said Vasko. ‘He probably never made it out of the country. My mother, my sister and I were arrested outside the American Embassy on her way to apply for a passport to replace the ones which were taken from us when we first arrived in Russia. She was convicted of illegal currency possession and the three of us were exiled to the Gulag at Kolyma.’

‘Kolyma!’ exclaimed Pekkala. ‘And how is it that you survived?’

‘We never arrived,’ explained Vasko. ‘We were shipwrecked off the coast of Japan. I was one of only a few survivors. We were taken to a hospital in Japan, but I suspected that it was only a matter of time before we would be handed over to the Russians, so I escaped. I made my way to the German Embassy. When I explained who I was, they offered to smuggle me out of the country and to give me a new life in Germany.’

‘But why go to the German Embassy?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Why not go to the Americans?’

Vasko shook his head. ‘I didn’t trust them any more than I trusted the Soviets. When I reached Germany, it was admiral Canaris himself who took me in. He trained me. He gave purpose to my life, and I have no regrets for anything I’ve done in the service of the Abwehr.’

‘In spite of that, your mission has failed,’ Pekkala told him. ‘A ceasefire now exists between the men you hoped to turn against each other.’

Slowly Vasko shook his head. ‘It has not failed, Pekkala. All this was only a diversion. The real mission is still under way.’

Pekkala hesitated, wondering whether Vasko might be telling the truth, or if he was just bargaining with lies. ‘If you’re right about what you say, then tell me what you know and I’ll do what I can to protect you.’

‘All I know,’ said Vasko, ‘is that Stalin does not have long to live. Somewhere out there is another agent, and there is nothing you can do to stop him now.’

‘Tell me his name,’ said Pekkala. ‘This might be your only chance to save yourself.’

‘I couldn’t help you, Pekkala, even if I wanted to.’ Vasko spread his arms. ‘So why don’t you just go ahead and shoot?’

‘I have no intention of shooting you,’ Pekkala told him.

‘But you will be the one who hands me over to the men at Lubyanka and when, like my father, I am shot against the prison wall, will your guilt be any less than if you pulled the trigger yourself?’

Pekkala tightened his grip on the Webley. ‘It does not have to end this way,’ he said.

‘No,’ answered Vasko. ‘You could have me shipped me out to Kolyma, and I could end my days in the Sturmovoi goldmine. How long is the life expectancy there? One month? Or is it two? I would rather die here, now, than be led from this place like a lamb to the slaughtering pen.’

‘You know I cannot let you go.’ Sweat burned between Pekkala’s fingers, and his palm felt slick against the pistol grips.

‘Then at least have the courage to kill me yourself.’

‘You are giving me no choice,’ Pekkala answered quietly, as his finger curled around the trigger.

There was no fear in Vasko’s eyes. Instead, he stared Pekkala down, like a man who has foreseen his end a hundred times and for whom the emptiness of death could hold no fear.

Pekkala’s levelled the gun at the inverted V of Vasko’s solar plexus. His breathing grew steady and slow. The muscles in his shoulder tightened in anticipation of the Webley’s kick. Already Pekkala could feel the burden of Vasko’s death hanging like an anchor chain around his neck and he knew that it would never go away.

At that moment, an image flickered in his brain of the journey he had made to the labour camp at Borodok, in a cattle car so crowded that even the dead remained standing. Once more, Pekkala heard the moaning of the wind through barbed wire laced across the window opening and felt the heat of his body leach out through his flimsy prison clothes until his heart felt like a jagged piece of glass lodged in his throat. As that long, slow train clattered through the Ural mountains into Siberia, the knowledge had spread unspoken through those frost-encrusted wagons that even those who might return would never be the same. For the rest of their lives, the mark of the Gulag would be upon them; the unmistakable hollowness of their gaze, the pallor of their cheeks, the way they slept curled in upon themselves, hoarding their last spark of warmth.

While Vasko stood helpless before him, patiently awaiting his death, Pekkala saw the years fade from his face, like layers peeled from an onion, until he glimpsed a child, frightened and confused, and bound on that same journey through Siberia.

As if the weight of his revolver had suddenly become too much to bear, Pekkala lowered the gun. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Find your own way to oblivion.’

Slowly, Vasko’s arms dropped to his side. ‘Is this some kind of trick?’ he asked.

‘Go!’ repeated Pekkala, his voice rising. ‘Before I change my mind!’

A cold wind shuffled through the treetops, sending wisps of fine snow cascading from the branches. Glittering flakes powdered the clothes of the two men, melting in tiny droplets on their skin.

Without another word, Vasko turned and ran.

Pekkala listened to his footsteps fading softly over the pine-needled earth. Then he sighed and put away his gun.

*

The sun had already set by the time Poskrebychev set out for the airfield in an American-made Packard, the personal vehicle of Stalin, which was garaged at the Kremlin Motor Pool. Its original weight of 6000 lb had been increased to 15,000 lb by the addition of armour plating, which included three-inch thick window glass, able to withstand a direct burst of machine gun fire.

Akhatov sat in the back. With a contented groan, he stretched out on to the padded leather seat. ‘Which airfield is it?’ he asked.

‘Krylova,’ replied Poskrebychev and as he spoke he removed an envelope from his chest pocket and tossed it over his shoulder into Akhatov’s lap.

Akhatov tore open the envelope and removed the banknotes it contained. There was a rapid fluttering sound as he let the bills play across his thumb. ‘One thing I’ll say about your boss,’ said Akhatov, tucking the money into his pocket. ‘He pays his debts on time.’

Poskrebychev did not reply. He stared at the road as it unravelled from the darkness, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

Soon they had passed beyond the city limits. Stars clustered above the ruffled black line of the horizon.

The gates of the Krylova airfield were open. Tall metal fences, topped with coils of barbed wire, stretched away into the darkness.

‘Why are there no lights?’ said Akhatov.

‘There is a blackout,’ answered Poskrebychev. ‘Military regulations.’ The Packard rolled across the railyard until it arrived at an empty hangar. The brakes squeaked as Poskrebychev brought the car to a halt. ‘We’re a little early,’ he said, cutting the engine. ‘The plane has not yet arrived. You might want to stretch your legs, Comrade Akhatov. You will be on that plane for a while.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ said Akhatov.

The two men climbed out of the car.

‘It’s a pretty night,’ said Akhatov, staring up at the sky.

‘It is,’ agreed Poskrebychev and, as he spoke, he drew a Nagant revolver from his pocket and shot Akhatov through the back of the head.

Akhatov dropped to his knees, and then tipped over on to his side.

The shot echoed across the deserted runway and through the empty buildings of Krylova. The station had been closed down six months before, after it was discovered that the main runway had been built over a spring and was prone to unexpected flooding. A new facility had just been completed at Perovichi, and it was here that the plane bound for Rovno waited, engines running, for a passenger who would never arrive.

Poskrebychev stared down at the body of Akhatov. The bullet had exited through the man’s forehead, just above the hairline, leaving a hole the size of a pocket watch in Akhatov’s skull.

Poskrebychev had never killed anyone before and now he nudged Akhatov with the toe of his boot, as if uncertain he had done the job correctly. Then he squatted down like a little boy, reached out slowly and touched his fingertip against Akhatov’s open right eye.

Satisfied, Poskrebychev set to work stripping off Akhatov’s coat, which he then wrapped around the dead man’s head. As soon as he had completed this task, he heaved Akhatov into the boot of the Packard and drove north towards the village of Stepanin, where his parents had once owned a summer cottage.

Before he reached the village, however, Poskrebychev pulled off on to a side road and drove into a wooded area where there had once been a slate quarry. The quarry had been abandoned long before, and the deep pit from which the slate had been extracted was now filled with water. As a boy, Poskrebychev had frequently come here with his parents, to swim in the luminous green water.

He backed up the Packard as far as he dared towards the lip of the quarry. Then he stopped the car, got out and walked to the edge. It was a long way down, enough to give him vertigo, and he quickly backed away.

Poskrebychev dragged Akhatov’s body from the car, letting it fall heavily to the ground. Then he got down on his knees and, using all his strength, rolled the corpse off the edge of the cliff. Akhatov fell, limbs trailing, until he splashed into the quarry lake, leaving a halo in the blackness of the water. For a while, the corpse floated on the surface, pale and shimmering. Then it sank away into the dark.

Before he got back into the car, Poskrebychev threw the murder weapon into the quarry. The Nagant had belonged to his uncle, who had carried it in the Great War and gave it to his nephew as a present on the day he first joined the Kremlin staff. But Poskrebychev never wore a gun. From that day until this, the Nagant had been hidden in a metal tub of rice in his kitchen.

Before returning to Moscow, Poskrebychev drove to the Perovichi airfield, where he found the Lavochkin still waiting.

‘Hurry up!’ called the pilot, when Poskrebychev stepped out of the Packard and approached the aircraft. ‘I’ve wasted enough fuel already.’

‘I am not your passenger!’ Poskrebychev shouted over the buzz-saw thrumming of the aircraft’s Shevtsov engine.

The pilot threw up his hands. ‘Then where the devil is he?’

‘He’s not coming.’

‘But I have orders to fly this plane to Rovno!’

‘Oh, you’re still going there,’ Poskrebychev told him.

‘Without a passenger?’ the pilot demanded in amazement. ‘But the amount of fuel this is going to take-’

‘Do you presume,’ hollered Poskrebychev, ‘to question the will of Comrade Stalin?’

‘No!’ the pilot replied hastily. ‘It’s not that. .’

‘Then go!’ cried Poskrebychev, using the particularly shrill tone he employed on all who were beneath him. ‘Take to the sky and be gone and I’ll forget your suicidal proclamations!’

Within minutes, the plane had vanished into the night sky.

As he drove back to Moscow, Poskrebychev realised that he had given almost no thought to everything he had just done. There had been no time to consider his actions and to balance out the risks. Poskrebychev had simply made up his mind on the spot that Akhatov had to be stopped. Now he wondered if he would be caught, but these thoughts were vague and fleeting, as if the risk belonged to someone he had met in a dream. There was nothing to do now, Poskrebychev decided, but to carry on as if nothing unusual had happened. He wondered if this was what bravery felt like. He had never been brave before. He had been sly and cowardly and grovelling, but never actually brave. Until now, the opportunity had never presented itself. As he raced along the empty, frozen roads towards the lights of Moscow in the distance, the steady thrum of the V12 engine seemed to reach a perfect equilibrium, as engines sometimes do at night, and Poskrebychev was filled with a curious blur of energy and peace of mind, as if the gods were telling him that no harm would come his way.

After returning the Packard to the Kremlin motor pool, Poskrebychev walked back to his office to collect some paperwork before heading home.

Entering the room, he turned on the lights and gasped.

Stalin was sitting as his desk.

‘Comrade Stalin?’ spluttered Poskrebychev. ‘What are you doing there, alone and in the dark?’

‘You drove my Packard.’

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’

‘That is my car! It is not for running errands.’

‘But it is the only vehicle whose destination is never listed in the motor-pool logbook, Comrade Stalin.’

Stalin was silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said finally, ‘Under the circumstances, I suppose it makes sense to have used it.’ Stalin rose from the desk. ‘But if I find one scratch on the paint, you will answer for it, I promise.’

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’

‘The Siberian has been dropped off?’

‘I handled it myself,’ replied Poskrebychev.

Just before he left the room, Stalin paused and turned to his secretary. ‘I know what you think about my decision but, in time, you will see that everything which has been done is for the best.’

‘I see it already, Comrade Stalin.’

For a moment, Stalin only stared at Poskrebychev, as if struggling to comprehend the meaning of his words. Then he gave a noncommittal grunt, walked out and shut the door.

*

Pekkala picked up Malashenko, carried him over to the Jeep and laid his body across the rear seats.

By then, the sun had set, and darkness seemed to rise up through the ground.

He went back into the cabin, took up the paraffin lamp, and smashed it against the wall. The fuel splashed over the bare logs, trickling into a puddle on the floor. Afterwards, Pekkala lit a match from a box which he found on the windowsill. When he set fire to the paraffin, pearl-white flames raced across floor and walls and Pekkala backed out of the cabin, shielding his face with one hand.

Quickly, he climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep, turned on its blinkered headlights and raced back down the trail. The wheels spun and side-slipped in the mud and the body of the man who had saved his life jolted in the rear seat as if a pulse were returning to his veins.

As Pekkala drove, he thought about what Vasko had said about the second mission. Maybe the man had been lying, although he doubted it. Over the years, Pekkala had investigated numerous plots to assassinate Stalin. Most turned out to be nothing more than rumours and the rest had been stopped in their tracks long before they turned into actual threats. But Canaris was a formidable adversary. Stalin had confided to Pekkala that the only man who truly made him fear for his life was the admiral. The year before, Stalin’s fears had almost become reality when a German plot to assassinate him at a conference in Teheran had only been uncovered by accident. Fortunately, the admiral’s powers had been undermined by the ongoing struggle between the SS and the Abwehr, which had weakened both branches of German Intelligence. This bitter rivalry had forced Canaris to undertake operations so secret and complex that not even those within the German High Command were aware of their existence. Although Vasko had given Pekkala little to go on, the possibility that Canaris could have conceived and set in motion another plot to murder Stalin was very real. There was little Pekkala could do, however, except to transmit a message to the Kremlin as soon as he arrived in Rovno and hope that Moscow took his warning seriously.

As Pekkala drove through the outskirts of the town, he noticed a column of smoke rising from the centre, its blackness blotting out the stars. He found himself wondering what was even left to burn in Rovno. The town had been all but cremated in the numerous battles and air raids unleashed upon it.

The closer Pekkala came to the garrison, the clearer it became to him that the fire was coming from the building itself. Arriving at the barricade, he climbed out of the Jeep and joined a crowd of soldiers who were watching the blaze. No one made any attempt to put out the fire. Instead, they seemed content to stare at the inverted waterfalls of smoke and flames, rolling and boiling from the window frames.

Standing closest to the inferno was Commander Chaplinsky, his sooty face glistening with sweat. Chaplinsky held a bottle of brandy in one hand and the severed receiver of a field telephone in the other. The cloth-covered cord which once attached it to the body of the radio had been wrenched apart and now only multi-coloured strands of wire hung from the receiver.

‘What happened?’ asked Pekkala, as he went to stand beside Chaplinsky.

The commander glanced across at him, pig-eyed in his drunkenness. ‘Nobody knows for sure,’ he replied. ‘Some of our ammunition stores must have been hit during the battle. By the time we realised the place was burning, it was already too late. It was all we could do to get everyone out of there before the place started falling in upon itself. The partisans helped. Thank God we didn’t have to slaughter them. Just before the fire forced us out of the building, we received a message from Moscow, ordering us to cancel our attack on the Atrads.’

He was interrupted by the dull thump of a ceiling giving way. A geyser of sparks erupted through the gap of what had been the front doors of the building. The doors themselves lay flattened on the ground, as if knocked down by a stampede.

‘Is there any way that I can contact Moscow?’ asked Pekkala. ‘It may be urgent.’

Chaplinsky held out the broken radio receiver. ‘This is all that’s left of our equipment. After that last message from Moscow, everything went up in flames.’ Contemptuously, he tossed the receiver aside. ‘We’re cut off from the world, Inspector, and maybe that’s not a bad thing!’ he said as he passed the brandy to Pekkala.

Pekkala took the bottle and held it up against the backdrop of the flames. On the label, not quite obscured by the name ‘Krug’, which had been scribbled across it in black pencil, Pekkala read the words, ‘Armagnac Baron de Sigognac’, as well as a date of 1940. He wondered what strange journey had brought it to this place. Through the dark green glass he saw the liquid swaying. It had been a long time since he’d been offered anything but samahonka, brewed by Barabanschikov himself in an old crow’s-foot bathtub, and which Pekkala wisely had not touched. Raising the bottle to his lips, he drank and felt the quiet fire of the brandy spread like wings inside his chest.

‘Where is my driver, Zolkin?’ asked Chaplinsky, retrieving the bottle from Pekkala. ‘Is that him sleeping in the back of the Jeep?’

‘No,’ replied the Inspector. ‘That is a partisan named Malashenko. He was one of Barabanschikov’s men.’

‘Was?’

‘That’s what I said,’ replied Pekkala.

‘Well, get him out of there before he bleeds on the seats! And where is Zolkin, anyway? Has he deserted? I never did trust that man. I’ll have him shot, I swear!’

‘Sergeant Zolkin has not deserted,’ Pekkala assured him. ‘He left for Moscow on a plane not long ago, in the company of my assistant, Major Kirov. He talked his way into becoming my chauffeur. I did not have a chance to tell you sooner.’

‘You’re welcome to him,’ said Chaplinsky. ‘Around here, drivers are not hard to find. It’s vehicles we don’t have enough of, not to mention spare parts for repairs. I guess I can’t blame him for leaving.’ He raised his bottle at the funeral pyre of the garrison. ‘Who wouldn’t trade Moscow for this?’

‘He said his greatest wish was to shake the hand of Joseph Stalin, and he may well get the chance before this day is out.’

Chaplinsky blinked at him stupidly. ‘You must be mistaken, Inspector. Zolkin is the last person who would want an audience with Stalin.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘His family used to be farmers in northern Ukraine, but they died of starvation when Stalin ordered the farms to be collectivised. Zolkin is the only one who survived, and if you believe the stories they tell about him, he did so by eating the flesh of his parents. A man like that,’ Chaplinsky paused to belch extravagantly, ‘is the kind who would carry a grudge.’

While Chaplinsky continued to ramble, one thought blazed across Pekkala’s mind. If I were Canaris, he thought, Zolkin is exactly the kind of person I would be looking to recruit. As Yakushkin’s personal driver, he too would have been transferred back to Moscow. Once there, Yakushkin would have been in direct contact with top-ranking members of the Kremlin staff, including Stalin. Drivers regularly accompanied the officers they served to meetings, acting partly as bodyguards and partly as baggage handlers for the briefcases full of documents required at each presentation to the high command. Zolkin would be armed as a matter of course. All drivers were. Perhaps Yakushkin’s murder had not been planned. The commander had simply been in the wrong place when Vasko went looking for information on the whereabouts of Major Kirov. Since Vasko did not know the identity of the second agent, or the details of his mission, he had no idea that he had placed the entire mission in jeopardy.

If Zolkin was indeed the second agent, his role in the assassination plot might have ended with Yakushkin’s death. Instead, the sergeant had just talked his way on to the plane bound for Moscow, and a meeting with Stalin himself.

And I am the one who made it possible, thought Pekkala, dread rising in the back of his throat. Within a matter of hours, Zolkin will be at the Kremlin. If he is able to carry out his task, it won’t just be Stalin who dies. The lives of Kirov and Barabanschikov are also in grave danger.

‘Of course,’ Chaplinsky continued, ‘there are others to blame besides the Boss. Some say it wasn’t Stalin’s fault at all. Some even say-’

‘I must get a message to Moscow!’ interrupted Pekkala. ‘Chaplinsky, this is very important.’

‘I told you, the radios are gone. Burned to ashes. The only way you can contact Moscow is if you get on the plane and go there yourself with the message.’

‘What plane?’ asked Pekkala.

‘The one that landed about half an hour ago, although exactly what he’s doing here is hard to say. It’s all very strange. He was carrying orders from Moscow to deliver a passenger. The thing is, though, he didn’t have any passengers with him.’

‘Where is the plane now?’ asked Pekkala.

‘On the runway at Obarov, but if you want to get on board, you’d better hurry. The pilot said that as soon as his plane has been refuelled, he’s going straight back where he came from.’

The words had barely left Chaplinsky’s mouth before Pekkala dashed back to the vehicle, started the engine and set out towards Obarov.

‘By all means, take my Jeep!’ Chaplinsky shouted after him. ‘You’ve already stolen my driver.’

But Pekkala was already gone.

*

Vasko had been running flat out for half an hour, following the dim outline of the forest path, before he finally allowed his pace to slacken. By now, he was deep in the woods and unsure of his location. Not until the moon had climbed above the trees did Vasko even know in which direction he was headed. His only thought had been to get away. To have had his life spared by the man he’d sworn to kill had turned Vasko’s mind into a hornet’s nest of confusion. But the anger was still there, coiled like a snake in his guts and whispering to him that everything Pekkala had said was a lie. Vasko listened to its patient and familiar voice, demanding blood for blood.

In the strange, gunmetal-blue light of the full moon, Vasko headed west towards the German lines, passing within a stone’s throw of the place where the farrier Hudzik lay naked and frozen among the bones of former customers.

*

The Lavochkin aircraft in which Pekkala travelled, being faster than the fully-loaded cargo plane transporting Barabanschikov, arrived in Moscow only half an hour after the others had touched down.

Scrambling into the air controller’s car, Pekkala raced towards the Kremlin, punching the horn as he sped through every intersection.

‘Inspector!’ Poskrebychev leapt to his feet as Pekkala entered the office. ‘I knew you would come back to us!’

Out of breath and wild-eyed with fatigue, Pekkala swiped a finger across his throat, instantly silencing Poskrebychev. With his other hand, he drew the Webley from his coat.

At the sight of the gun, Poskrebychev’s expression transformed from one of joy to utter confusion. ‘Why have you drawn your weapon?’ he gasped. ‘You know you cannot do that here!’

Pekkala pointed at the doors to Stalin’s study. ‘Who is in that room now?’ he demanded.

‘Why, Major Kirov! And that partisan leader, Barabanschikov. And Comrade Stalin, too, of course. The partisan requested a private audience with Stalin, which has been granted. Major Kirov is just finishing up his report and then he will leave them alone to carry out their business.’

‘What about Zolkin?’

‘The driver?’ Poskrebychev shrugged. ‘He came and went. Kirov introduced him to Comrade Stalin. They shook hands, Stalin autographed the back of his pass book and then Zolkin excused himself.’

‘He’s gone?’ Pekkala looked stunned.

‘Yes!’ insisted Poskrebychev. ‘The last I saw of Sergeant Zolkin, he was on his way down to the motor pool, where your Emka has been stored since Major Kirov’s departure. I gather that the sergeant is to be your new driver.’

Pekkala slumped back against the door frame. ‘I thought. .’ he began, but his words trailed off into silence.

‘Inspector, do not throw away your life,’ pleaded the secretary. ‘I know how you must feel, but all the good you have done for this country will be squandered in a heartbeat if you shed his blood like this.’

As those words echoed in Pekkala’s mind, he thought back to a promise he had made, on a winter’s day long ago, as he sat with his friend by the ashes of a still-glowing fire. Then suddenly he knew who he’d been chasing all along.

The double doors flew open as Pekkala stepped into the room.

The three men turned to stare at him.

Stalin was on his feet, sitting on the front edge of his desk with his arms folded and his legs stretched out and crossed, so that only his heels touched the ground. At the sight of the Inspector brandishing a gun, Stalin’s eyes grew wide with amazement.

In front of him stood Kirov and Barabanschikov.

At the moment Pekkala entered, Kirov’s hands had been raised as he described some event in their journey. Now he froze, his hands stilled in the air, as if holding an invisible ball.

The only one who moved was Barabanschikov. ‘Hello, old friend,’ he said to Pekkala, and as he spoke, he pulled a small Mauser automatic pistol from the pocket of his tattered coat. But rather than pointing the gun at Pekkala, he aimed it at Stalin instead.

‘Barabanschikov,’ whispered Kirov, ‘have you completely lost your mind?’

‘What is the meaning of this?’ roared Stalin, his eyes fixed on Barabanschikov’s gun. ‘Put that weapon down! This is not some muddy crossroads in the forest, where you can rob and murder to your heart’s content. This is the Kremlin! How do you expect to get out of here alive?’

‘That was never my intention,’ replied Barabanschikov.

‘I offered you peace!’ roared Stalin.

‘I have seen what you call peace. All you gave us was a different way to die. Nothing will change for us while you are still alive.’

Pekkala slowly raised the Webley until its sights were locked on Barabanschikov. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.

‘That day I was stopped at the roadblock in Rovno‚ at the same time as you were arrested on the other side of town, things did not go exactly as I told you. One of my former students, who had joined the Ukrainian police, was manning the roadblock. He recognised me immediately and I was brought to the German Field Police Headquarters. The commander’s name was Krug, and he explained that he knew where we were and that they had already made plans to wipe us out. But then he offered me the chance to work with them, in exchange for which he would spare my life, and the lives of everyone in our group. I had no choice, so I agreed. From that day on, I kept him informed about everything that happened in the Red Forest. And when I told the enemy you had joined us, they gambled that you might one day lead me into the presence of Stalin himself. As you can see, they were right. You once asked me how we managed to survive. Well, there is your answer.’

‘Do you remember the oath we took?’ asked Pekkala.

‘To do whatever good we can,’ replied the partisan.

‘And to stay alive!’ shouted Pekkala. ‘Do you remember that?’

‘I do, old friend,’ said Barabanschikov, ‘but I’m tired of treading softly through this world.’

A gunshot clapped the air, deafening in the confined space of the room.

But it wasn’t Pekkala who fired.

In the second when Barabanschikov turned his head towards the Inspector, Kirov had reached for his gun. He shot the partisan almost point-blank in the side, so close that the cloth of Barabanschikov’s jacket was smouldering as the partisan slipped to the floor.

At the moment of the gunshot, Stalin cried out and shrank away, hands covering his face. Now he slowly lowered his hands and looked down at his chest, searching for the wound which he felt sure he must have suffered. Frantically, he swept his fingers up and down his arms and dabbed his fingertips against his cheeks in search of blood. Finding nothing, Stalin began to laugh. He stepped over to the dying Barabanschikov and began to kick at him savagely.

The partisan was still alive, but he was barely breathing. He kept blinking his eyes, as if to clear the darkness that was closing in on him.

‘Comrade Stalin. .’ Kirov said gently.

Cackling obscenely, Stalin continued to jab his foot into the man’s stomach where the bullet had gone in, until the toe of his calfskin boot was slick with red.

‘Enough!’ Pekkala’s voice exploded.

Only now did Stalin pause. He whipped his head around and stared at the Inspector, madness in his yellow-green eyes. ‘Filthy partisans!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll wipe them all off the face of the earth.’

‘The partisans were not behind this,’ said Pekkala.

‘Then who was?’ Stalin demanded.

‘Admiral Canaris.’

At the sound of that name, Stalin froze. ‘Canaris,’ he whispered, and a look of terror passed across his face. He stepped away from Barabanschikov, walked around behind the desk and sat down in his chair. With trembling hands, Stalin lit a cigarette, the burning end crackling as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. Slowly, the madness faded from his eyes. ‘You took your damned time getting here,’ he said.

Two guards skidded into the room, sub-machine guns at the ready. They looked around in confusion, until their gazes came to rest upon the partisan.

Barabanschikov was dead now, his clawed hands still clutching the wound.

Shouting echoed through the hallway as more guards rushed up the stairs, scrambling in their hobnailed boots.

‘Send all the others away,’ ordered Stalin, ‘and you two can clean up this mess.’ He gestured towards the body of the partisan, trailing smoke through the air with his cigarette.

The guards dragged Barabanschikov out by his feet, smearing the red carpet with the darker shade of blood.

‘Poskrebychev!’ Stalin called into the outer office.

A moment later, the secretary peeked around the corner. As soon as he had heard the shot, he crawled under his desk and stayed there. Only when the guards ran into Stalin’s room did he feel it was safe to come out. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’ he asked in a quavering voice.

‘Send a message to Akhatov. Tell him that his services are no longer required.’ Stalin took one last drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out in his already crowded ashtray. ‘Major Kirov,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, ‘I owe you my thanks.’

‘You owe him more than that,’ said Pekkala, before Kirov had a chance to reply.

Through gritted teeth, Stalin managed to smile. ‘I see that your time among the savages has done nothing to improve your manners.’

‘Inspector,’ Kirov said hastily, ‘the car is waiting.’

‘By all means go, Pekkala.’ Stalin waved him away. ‘Just not so far this time.’

*

That evening, after a visit to his apartment, where he took his first hot bath in more than a year, Pekkala returned to his office. As he climbed the stairs to the office on the fifth floor, a wintry sunset cast its brassy light upon the dusty window panes, illuminating the chipped paint on the banisters and the scuffed wooden steps beneath his feet. It was so familiar to him that, for a moment, all the time since he had last set foot in here held no more substance than the gauzy fabric of a dream.

As Pekkala reached the fourth floor, he smelled food. ‘Shashlik,’ he muttered to himself. The grilled lamb, marinated in pomegranate juice and served with green peppers over rice, was one of his favourite dishes. Then he remembered that it was Friday.

Kirov had not forgotten their old ritual of a dinner cooked on the wood-fired stove in their office at the end of every week.

Pekkala smiled as he opened the door, turning the old brass knob with the tips of his fingers in a movement so practised that it required no conscious thought.

Inside, Kirov was waiting. ‘You’re just in time,’ he said. He had cleared off their desks and dragged them together to make a table. Laid out on the desks, whose bare wood surfaces were stained with overlapping rings from countless glasses of tea, lay heavy white plates loaded with food.

Elizaveta was there, too, clutching a platter of jam-filled pelmeny pastries — a gift from Sergeant Gatkina.

‘Tell the Emerald Eye,’ Gatkina had whispered in Elizaveta’s ear, ‘that there’s more where those came from!’

‘I hope you’re not surprised to see me here, Inspector,’ Elizaveta said nervously, as she laid the platter on the table.

‘I would have been surprised if you weren’t,’ replied Pekkala.

‘Before we sit down,’ said Kirov, rubbing his hands together, ‘I have an announcement to make.’

‘You two are getting married.’

Kirov rolled his eyes. ‘You could at least pretend you hadn’t guessed.’

‘You wouldn’t have believed me if I tried,’ remarked Pekkala. ‘Besides,’ he nodded at Elizaveta, ‘she is wearing a ring.’

‘I wondered if you’d notice,’ she said, holding out her hand for him to see.

‘It’s only a small diamond,’ muttered Kirov, ‘but the way things are. .’

‘Small!’ Taking Elizaveta’s hand, Pekkala studied the ring. ‘I can barely see it.’

Elizaveta snatched her hand away. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’ she demanded, anger rising in her voice.

‘Because I think you can do better,’ said Pekkala. As he spoke, he produced a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.

‘What are we supposed to do with that?’

‘Consider it as a gift.’

‘You are crazy!’ said Elizaveta. ‘I’ve always said you were.’ She snatched up the handkerchief and threw it at Kirov. ‘Get rid of that filthy thing!’

‘Now then,’ said Kirov, as he caught the handkerchief. ‘I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this,’ adding in a quieter voice, ‘although what it could possibly be. .’ He lifted one of the round iron plates from the stove and was just about to toss the handkerchief into the fire when he noticed a knot tied in one of the corners. Returning the iron plate to its place on the stove, he began picking away at the knotted cloth until something fell out and rattled on to the floor.

‘What’s that?’ asked Elizaveta.

Kirov bent down and peered at the object. ‘It looks like a diamond,’ he whispered.

Now Elizaveta came to look. ‘It is a diamond. It’s the biggest diamond I have ever seen!’

Grinning with satisfaction, Pekkala regarded their astonishment.

Kirov bent down and picked up the gem. ‘Where on earth did you get this, Inspector?’ he asked, holding up the diamond between his thumb and first two fingers.

‘From an old acquaintance,’ replied Pekkala and, as he spoke, he thought of Maximov, heading out alone across the frozen lake. ‘I think he would have wanted you to have it.’

Elizaveta placed a hand to her forehead. ‘And I just called you crazy, didn’t I?’

‘From what I hear,’ replied Pekkala, ‘you’ve called me worse than that.’

Elizaveta turned to glare at Kirov.

Kirov opened his mouth, but the phone rang before he could speak.

Its jarring clatter startled everyone in the room.

Pekkala picked up the receiver.

‘Hold for Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev’s shrill command drilled into his ear.

Pekkala waited patiently.

A moment later, a quiet voice rustled through the static, like a whisper in the dark. ‘Is that you, Pekkala?’

‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’

‘I thought you might like to know,’ said Stalin, ‘that Commander Chaplinsky was able to negotiate a ceasefire with the partisans. They have laid down their arms. Those men may not realise it, Pekkala, but they owe you their lives.’

‘It’s Barabanschikov who deserves the credit,’ replied Pekkala.

‘Barabanschikov!’ Stalin spluttered into the telephone receiver. ‘That traitor got exactly what he deserved and I intend to let those partisans know what kind of man was leading them.’

‘What makes you think they will believe you?’

‘They have to! It’s the truth.’

‘And when you tell them he was shot in the Kremlin, by a commissar of the Red Army, while under your personal protection — all of which is true — how long do you think it will take before they pick up their weapons again?’

There was a pause. ‘You may have a point,’ Stalin conceded. ‘What do you suggest I do about it?’

‘Give Barabanschikov a medal,’ said Pekkala. ‘The highest one you’ve got.’

‘What?’ growled Stalin. ‘Have you forgotten that he just tried to kill me?’

‘Would you rather that Admiral Canaris knew exactly how close he came to liquidating you,’ asked Pekkala, ‘or would you prefer to have him think that he was betrayed by a man who had been loyal to you all along?’

In the silence that followed, Pekkala could hear a rustling sound as Stalin raked his fingernails through the stubble on his chin. ‘Very well,’ he muttered at last. ‘As of this moment, I declare comrade Barabanschikov to be a hero of the Soviet Union.’

‘Will that be all, Comrade Stalin?’ Pekkala glanced at the steam curling up from the food on the table.

‘As a matter of fact, it will not. There is something that I need to know.’

‘Yes?’

‘If you had walked into this room fifteen seconds later, I would be dead now. You knew that, but you walked in anyway.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did you let me live, Pekkala, after all I’ve done to you?’

‘Do you really want the answer, Comrade Stalin?’

There was a long pause. ‘No,’ said Stalin. ‘On second thought, maybe I don’t.’ Without another word, he hung up the phone. For a moment, Stalin looked around his study, at the red velvet curtains, the picture of Lenin on the wall and the old grandfather clock standing silent in the corner, as if to reassure himself that everything was as it should be. Then he opened a drawer in his desk, removed a can of sardines in tomato sauce and peeled back the top with a small metal key. He took off his jacket‚ rolled up his sleeves and tucked a large grey handkerchief into his collar. But before he began his meal, Stalin lifted the headset, with which he had been listening to the conversation in Pekkala’s office. He had waited for the precise moment when they were sitting down to eat before ordering Poskrebychev to place the call. Now, as Stalin heard the sound of cutlery on plates, he slipped one of the greasy, headless sardines into his mouth. While he chewed, he felt the soft bones crush between his teeth. Pausing to lick the tiny, glistening fish scales from his fingertips, Stalin imagined he was there among them in that cosy little room, sharing the warmth and the laughter.