The Beast in the Red Forest(6)

Jangling the car keys in his hand, Kirov trampled down the stairs towards the street, bound on a mission to Linsky's.





(Postmark: Nizhni-Novgorod, June 14th, 1937.)


Ford Motor Plant

Workers' Residence Block 3, Liberty House'

Nizhni-Novgorod, Soviet union  


Boys, I am writing in haste. Whichever one of you opens this letter, I hope you will read it to the others. The truth is, I may need your help. My situation has changed recently. It's too much to go into right now, but the upshot of it is that I am sending my family back to America. I expect it will only be temporary, but they are going to need a place to stay and since my wife's family is spread out all over the Midwest, I figure it would be better for her and the kids to stay in a neighbourhood where she has friends like you. She's going to need a place to stay. You know Betty. She doesn't need much, and she'll be glad to earn her keep in whatever way she can. I wouldn't ask this of you if it wasn't real important. But I am asking you now. I expect she will be home again in a couple of months at the outside. Depending on how things go, I might be following her in a matter of days or it could be a matter of weeks, but I think it's best if she and the kids leave now. I don't know if you've heard anything from the others who came over, and by that I mean anything about me specifically, but if you have, then just remember that there's two sides to every story. I'll explain it all when I see you again, which I hope won't be too long from now.

Your old friend, Bill Vasko





The tyres of Kirov's battered Emka saloon popped rhythmically over the cobblestones.

Robotically, Kirov steered down one street and another as the chassis of the Emka swayed creaking on its worn-out springs. He wheeled past roadblocks fashioned out of torn-up railroad tracks which had been in place since the winter of 1941, when advance units of the German army Group Centre came within sight of Moscow and the seizure of the capital had seemed almost a foregone conclusion. Now those sections of rail, welded into bouquets of rusted iron, seemed to belong to a different universe from the one in which Russia existed today.

At last, Kirov pulled up to the kerb outside Linsky's. It was on a dreary street, so choked with ice and snow by midwinter that few vehicles would risk the journey. Even in summer, the tall buildings cleaved away the light except when the sun stood directly overhead.

As Kirov climbed out of the car, he paused and looked around. Apart from a man sweeping slush from the sidewalk with a large twig broom on the other side of the street, there was nobody around. And yet he had the feeling that he was being watched. This same sensation had come to him so many times since Pekkala disappeared that Kirov had begun to worry he might be growing paranoid. With gritted teeth, he scanned the windows of the buildings across the way, whose empty reflections returned his nervous stare. He looked up and down the street, but there was only the sweeper, his back turned to Kirov, methodically brushing the sidewalk. Finally, with a growl of frustration at his own fragmenting sanity, Kirov returned to his errand.

Linsky's window had not changed in all the years that Kirov had known about the existence of this eccentric little business. The intricate floral designs etched into the corners of the frosted-glass window belonged to a style more reminiscent of the nineteenth century than of the twentieth.

Inside, it was cramped and poorly lit, with scuffed wooden floors and a large mirror at one end. On the other side of the room was a platform on which clients stood when they were being measured for their clothes. The wall behind the platform was papered dark green and decorated with vertical pillars of ivy printed in gold and red. The effect was like that of a dense hedgerow, through which Kirov imagined he might push into a secret garden on the other side. Opposite the entrance was a large wooden counter, on which stood an ancient cash register with a brass plate identifying its maker as M. Righetti, Bologna. On either side of the register stood little trays of pins, loose buttons and a tattered yellow tape measure, coiled like a snake about to strike.

Behind this stood Linsky himself. He was a slight but well-proportioned man, with rosy cheeks, pale blue eyes and hair combed so flat that an ashtray could have balanced on top. He had thin, smirking lips, which gave him an expression of permanent disdain that Kirov could not help but take to heart.

Comrade Linsky,' he said, as he removed his cap and tucked it smartly under his right arm.

Major Kirov.' Linsky bowed his head in formal greeting. Comrade Poskrebychev mentioned that you might be stopping by.'

Kirov felt the blood rush to his face as he imagined the laughs they must have had at his expense. I had been meaning to stop by, anyway,' he muttered.

Faint wrinkles of bemusement appeared in the corners of the old man's eyes. Judging from the state of your clothes, Major, you have arrived not a minute too soon.'</ol>
 
 

 

Kirov's jaw muscles clenched. If we could just get started,' he said.

Certainly,' replied Linsky. Opening a drawer in the counter, he pulled out a black box and rifled through the crumpled documents inside. A moment later, he withdrew a letter and handed it to Kirov.

What's this?' he asked.

The real reason you are here,' replied Linsky.

The real reason? I don't understand.'

But you are about to, Major Kirov.'

Cautiously, Kirov took hold of the envelope, opened it and removed the piece of paper it contained. As he read, his head tilted to one side, like a man who has suddenly lost his balance.

The typed letter was an order for a new set of clothes, specifically two pairs of brown corduroy trousers made of 21-ounce cotton, three white collarless shirts made of linen with mother-of-pearl buttons, two waistcoats made of dark grey Bedford cord and one black double-breasted coat made of Crombie wool and lined with navy blue silk. At the bottom of the page was a date, specifying when the clothes should be ready.

The breath snagged in Kirov's throat as he recognised the familiar patterns and materials. Are these clothes for Pekkala?'

It would appear so,' answered Linsky.

And this is from two weeks ago!'

Yes.'

So you have seen him!'

Linsky shook his head.

Kirov held up the piece of paper. Then where did this come from? Was it mailed to you?

Somebody slid it under the door.'

So how can you be certain that these are for the Inspector? I admit I don't know anyone else who dresses like this, but . . .'

It's not just the clothing,' explained Linsky. It's the cloth. No one but Pekkala would have requested Crombie wool or Bedford cord. Those are English fabrics, of which I just happen to have a small quantity. And the only person who knows that I have them is the person who brought them to me before the Revolution, when I ran my business out of the Gosciny Dvor in Petrograd! He left the cloth with me so that I could use it to make the clothes he wanted. And that is what I have done for many years, for Pekkala and for no one else. The measurements are his, Major. There can be no doubt about who placed the order. They are exactly the same as he has always ordered from me. Well, almost exactly.'

What do you mean by almost'?' asked Kirov.

The coat had some modifications.'

What kind of modifications?'

Little pockets, two dozen of them, built into the left inside flap.'

What was the exact size of these pockets?'

Four centimetres long and two centimetres wide.'

Too wide for a bullet, thought Kirov.

And there was more,' continued Linsky. He also ordered several straps to be fitted into the right inside flap.'

For what purpose? Was it clear?'

Linsky shrugged. The specifications were for double-thick canvas straps so whatever things he intended to carry with them must have been quite heavy. It required reinforcement of the coat's entire right flap.'

More than one strap, you say?'

Yes. Three of them.'

Did they correspond to any particular shape?'

Not that I could tell. I puzzled over them for quite some time.'

And did you make the clothes?'

Of course, exactly as instructed.'

Kirov turned his attention back to the piece of paper in his hand. According to this, everything should have been picked up by now.'

Yes, Major.'

But you say you haven't seen Pekkala.'

No.'

Then where is the clothing? May I see it?'

No, Major. It's all gone.'

Gone?' Kirov's forehead creased. You mean somebody stole the clothes?'

Not exactly, Major.' Linsky pulled back a dark blue curtain directly behind him, revealing a grey metal bar, on which hung several sets of newly finished clothes, waiting to be picked up by their owners. On the day before everything was due to be picked up I placed the garments here, as I always do with outgoing orders. But when I arrived here for work on the following day, the clothes were missing. The lock had been picked.'

Did you report the break-in?'

No. Nothing was stolen.'

But you just told me you were robbed!'

The clothing was gone, but payment for the order was left in a small leather bag, hanging from the bar where the clothes had been hanging.'

And there were no messages inside?'

Just the money.'

Do you still have that leather bag?'

Yes, somewhere here.' He rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a bag of the type normally used by Russian soldiers to carry their rations of machorka tobacco. The bags were made from circles of leather, which then had holes punched around the edges. A leather cord was threaded through the holes and drawn tight, forming the shape of the bag. The bag Linsky held out to Kirov was, like most bags of this type, made from soft, suede leather, since it was intended to be worn around the neck of the soldier, where the tobacco stood the best chance of staying dry.