This time, Kirov did not take the car, but walked instead, striding across the city with his particular loping gait, the heel irons of his boots sparking off the cobblestones.
Podolski ran a shoe-repair business in a side street across from Lubyanka Square. His proximity to NKVD headquarters, and the fact that he specialised in military boots, meant that the personnel of Internal Security comprised almost all of his customers.
Unlike Linsky's front window, which at least contained the products of his trade, festooned though they were upon some of the ugliest mannequins Kirov had ever seen, Podolski's window display had nothing to do with shoes. The dusty space was strewn with old books, hats and odd gloves which Podolski had picked up off the street. This collection of orphaned relics was presided over by an old Manx cat who never seemed to move from its fur-matted cushion.
Just before he stepped inside the shop, Kirov paused and looked around. Once again, he had the feeling that he was being watched. But the side street was empty, and so was Lubyanka Square. No faces loomed from the doorway of NKVD Headquarters, or from the shuttered windows up above. And yet he experienced the unmistakable sensation of a stare burning into him, like a pinpoint of sun concentrated through a magnifying glass. I really am losing my mind, he told himself. If Stalin knew what was going on in my head, he'd tear up my Special Operations pass and have me thrown out into the street. If I could just talk to someone about it, he thought, but the only one who'd understand is Pekkala. I can't breathe a word of this to Elizaveta. She already thinks I'm mad for not giving up on this search. I love her, he thought. I just don't know if I can trust her. Not with something like this. Can you love someone and still not trust them? he wondered. Or do only mad men think these thoughts?</ol>
Podolski's shop smelled of polish, glue and leather. Rows of repaired boots, buffed to a mirror shine, stood on shelves awaiting their owners, while boots still in need of repair lay heaped upon the floor.
Podolski was a squat, broad-shouldered man, whose body looked as if it had been designed for lifting heavy objects. A pair of glasses hung on a greasy length of string around his tree-trunk neck. On his gnarled feet, he wore a pair of old sandals so thrashed by years of use and neglect that if a customer had brought them in, he would have refused to fix them.
I just fixed your boots!' muttered Podolski, when he caught sight of Kirov. He sat on a block of wood which had been draped with a piece of old carpet, a hammer in one hand and an army boot grasped in the other. The boot was positioned upon a dingy iron frame which resembled the branches of a tree. The end of each branch had been formed into shapes like the bills of large ducks, each one corresponding to the size and type of shoe which Podolski was repairing. Clenched between Podolski's teeth were half a dozen miniature wooden pegs, used for attaching a new leather sole. When he spoke, the pegs twitched in his lips as if they were the legs of some small creature trying to escape from his mouth.
I'm not here about my boots, Comrade Podolski,' replied Kirov. I've come because I need your help.'
Podolski paused, hammer raised. Then he turned his head to one side and spat out the pegs between his teeth. Lowering the hammer to his side, he allowed it to slip from his fingers. The heavy iron fell with a dull thump to the floor. The last time someone asked me for my help, I ended up fighting at the front for two years. And that was in the last war! Don't say you're calling me up again!'
Ignoring Podolski's outburst, Kirov handed him the piece of leather from the tobacco bag. Do you recognise that symbol?'
Without taking his eyes from the blurred scar of the brand mark, Podolski slid his fingers down the string attached to his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose. The numbers 243 are the date this leather was tanned. It means the second work quarter of 1943', so somewhere around June or July of this year. But the symbol,' he clicked his tongue, isn't one I've ever seen before. There are thousands of those symbols and they all look more or less the same. Trying to isolate just one of them would be like carrying water with a sieve.'
That's what I was afraid of.' Already, Kirov regretted having left the comfort of his office.
You'd have to go through the whole book,' said Podolski.
A book?' asked Kirov. There's a book of these symbols?'
A big book, but it would take hours to go through.'
Where can I find it?' Kirov snapped impatiently.
With a groan, Podolski rose to his feet and made his way over to the window of his shop. I've got it here somewhere.'
Find it, Podolski! This could be very important.'
Patience, Major. Patience.' He paused to scratch the ear of his cat. You should be like my friend here. He's never in a hurry.'
I don't have time to be patient!' replied Kirov.
Podolski lifted up a thick volume crammed with pulpy grey pages. Then good luck to you, Major,' he said as he tossed the book to Kirov, because you'll find thousands of those little brands in there.'
The volume thumped against Kirov's chest, almost knocking the wind out of him.
It's probably in there somewhere,' continued Podolski, making his way back to the wooden block. Thoughtfully, he rearranged the piece of carpet before sitting down again. Unless it's not a Soviet brand, in which case, you are completely out of luck. Either way, I wouldn't know. I've never even looked in it.'
Kirov looked around for a chair, but there wasn't one, so he lowered himself down to the floor with his back against the wall and rested the book on his lap. He was just about to open it, when suddenly he paused. Why do you even have this book, Podolski, if you've never looked in it?'
The government gave it to me. I told them I didn't want it, but they said it was the law. I have to own a copy, and so does anyone else who works with leather in this country.'
But why?'
All the leather I use for mending shoes and belts and whatever else comes through that door has to come from a State-approved tannery. Each tannery has its own symbol. They stamp the outer edges usually. You find them in each corner, in the parts of the hide that aren't of even thickness or have too many creases. They usually get thrown away as scrap or turned into laces or,' he skimmed the tobacco bag across the floor to Kirov, turned into trinkets like these. As long as one of those stamps is on the hide when I buy it, I have nothing to worry about. But if I get caught using leather which hasn't been approved, whether it's any good or not, then I'm in trouble. And given my clientele, Major, that's a chance I'd rather not take.'
You mean you have to go through this whole book every time you buy a hide for fixing shoes?'
All my leather comes from two or three local tanneries. I know their symbols by heart. One thing I can tell you, Major, wherever this came from, it's nowhere near Moscow.'
Kirov began leafing through the fragile pages.
Podolski went back to work, after carefully fitting a new set of wooden pegs between his teeth.
The tanneries were listed alphabetically, each one with a symbol marked beside it, and Podolski was right – there were thousands to sort through. After half an hour of staring at symbols, they all started to look the same. They seemed to jump across the flimsy paper as if the book held a nestful of insects. Kirov kept losing his focus, sliding away into daydreams, only to wake from them and realise that he had been turning pages without looking at them properly. He had to go back and look at them again.
It's time for me to go home,' said Podolski. My wife will be wondering what's happened.'
Patience, Podolski,' replied Kirov. Think of your cat.'
He's not married,' grumbled Podolski. He can afford to be patient.'
Two hours later, just as Podolski was closing up his shop for the day, sweeping the floor for scraps of leather and tooth-marked wooden pegs, Kirov located the symbol among the tanneries beginning with the letter K. By then, he was so dazed that he had to stare at it for a while before he could be sure. Kolodenka Leather Cooperative,' he read aloud.
Podolski's broom came to a rustling halt across the floor. Kolodenka! Where the hell is that?'
No idea,' replied Kirov, but wherever it is, that's where I'm going.'
Then I hope it's some place in the sun.' Podolski propped his broom in the corner. Removing a small can of ground meat from the shelf above his head, he opened it with a key attached to its side. The lid peeled away in a coil like an old clock spring. Then he emptied the food into a bowl and placed it on the window sill for the cat.
The two men walked out into the dusk.
While Podolski locked the shop, Kirov glanced uneasily up and down the street.
Are you expecting someone?' asked Podolski.
I wish I was,' muttered Kirov. Then, at least, I could explain why I always feel as if I'm being watched.'</ol>
You are being watched,' Podolski told him.
But by whom?'
Podolski tapped the glass of his shop window, drawing Kirov's gaze to the Manx cat. With eyes as green as gooseberries, it stared clean through into his soul.
You're going where?' demanded Stalin.
To the village of Kolodenka in western Ukraine,' replied Kirov. I believe that Pekkala may have been there recently, or somewhere near there, anyway.'
And this is based on what?'
Kirov paused. He knew he could not tell Stalin the truth. To do so would be to sign the death warrants of Linsky and Poskrebychev. Unsubstantiated evidence,' he stated categorically.
At that moment, in the outer office, Poskrebychev muttered a silent prayer of thanks. As usual, he had been eavesdropping through the intercom system between his desk and that of Stalin. Relaying Linsky's message to the major had been the greatest act of faith that he had ever undertaken, and the days since then had been filled with terror at each unfamiliar face he encountered in the hallway, every noise outside the door of his apartment. Even the casual glances of people he passed in the street caused sweat to gather like a scattering of pearls upon his face. When Kirov had passed by on his way into Stalin's office, he had not said a word to Poskrebychev. Kirov didn't even look in his direction, which had caused Poskrebychev's heart to accelerate completely out of control, and to flutter about his chest like a bird trapped behind the flimsy caging of his ribs. As soon as Kirov entered Stalin's room, Poskrebychev had leaned forward and, with trembling fingers, switched on the intercom so as to hear every word of what he felt sure was his impending doom.