Here it is!' said Antonina, as she came around the corner with the glazed earthenware pot containing the stew.
Yakushkin clapped his hands together. At last!' Just then, he heard the stairs creak as Molodin began making his way up to the apartment. Not yet, Molodin!' he called out. I have not even begun the meal!'
Antonina placed the pot before Yakushkin, handed him a serving ladle, then took her seat at the opposite side of the table.
Yakushkin rose to his feet, like a man about to give a speech. Beautiful,' he said, as he gazed into the stew, breathing the fragrant steam which dampened his red face. Truly a wonder of the world!' In that moment, Yakushkin's heart softened and he felt ashamed. What a fool I'd be, he thought, if I let this woman go. Of course I will take her to Moscow and we will be that happy family she spoke about.
Lifting his eyes, Yakushkin cast an adoring glance at Antonina, but was surprised to see she wasn't looking back at him. Instead, she was staring at the doorway with a startled expression on her face.
He turned to follow her gaze.
In the doorway stood a captain of the Red Army, his tunic darkened by the freezing rain which had soaked him to the bone. His hands were tucked behind his back, as if standing at ease on a parade ground. Water dripped from his elbows on to the scuffed floorboards.
Who are you?' Yakushkin demanded angrily. Has something happened at the garrison? Speak up, Captain! State your business and be gone.'
But the man said nothing, and he made no move to leave. Instead, he turned and stared at Antonina.
They know each other, thought Yakushkin. And suddenly he felt the burn of jealousy for a woman he had never wanted until now. He rounded upon Antonina. Who is this man to you?' he asked.
I've never seen him before!' replied Antonina, her voice quavering as she spoke. I swear.'
Yakushkin didn't believe her. I trusted you,' he snapped, but I promise that is over now!'
Yes,' said the officer. It's over now.' From behind his back he drew a gun.
A wave of helpless dread passed through Yakushkin's mind. He glanced down at his Tokarev, which lay beside the empty dinner plate. The captain had already drawn his gun. Yakushkin knew it was too late to save himself. He looked across at Antonina. I could have loved you,' he said, and then he snatched up the pistol and shot her in the chest.</ol>
At that same instant, a bullet crashed through the back of Yakushkin's skull. He fell forward on to the table, which collapsed beneath his weight. The contents of the earthenware pot spilled across the floor and cutlery crashed to the ground.
Antonina was still alive, but barely. The force of the bullet had knocked her out of her chair. Now she lay on her back, her legs askew like those of a dropped marionette. She tried to speak, but her words were lost in the blood which spilled from the corners of her mouth.
The man stepped carefully across the room, avoiding the steaming pieces of sliced apple, boiled sausage and shattered crockery. Curiously, he looked at the woman. From the look on his face, it would have been clear to Yakushkin that these two had never met before. He bent down and gently put his hand upon her forehead. Where is the major you treated at the hospital?' he asked quietly. The one named Kirov. Where is he now?'
Still there,' she whispered.
No,' the man told her. He's gone. Where did he go?'
She stared at him blankly.
You don't know, do you?' asked the man.
Her lips moved feebly, but she made no sound.
Slowly he moved his hand down from her forehead, until he was covering her eyes. Then he set the pistol against her left temple and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked and, in the flash of burning powder, some of her hair caught fire. He brushed it away from her face. Reeking metallically, the burned strands crumbled into ash.
The man stood and made his way back down the stairs. Before he vanished out into the storm, he paused to glance at Molodin, who lay in the hallway, tongue protruding from between his purple lips, and eyes bulging grotesquely from the garrotting wire sunk into his neck.
Memo from Joseph Davies, US Ambassador to Moscow, Yacht Sea Cloud', Stavanger, Norway to Counsellor Richard Sparks, Acting Supervisor of US Embassy, Moscow. December 21st, 1937
I order you to terminate the employment of Samuel Hayes, secretary at the Embassy, effective immediately. His gross negligence with regard to a recent inquiry into the arrest of a Soviet citizen has caused grave and unnecessary friction between this office and the office of the Kremlin, notwithstanding the considerable efforts made by me personally into resolving the case. Had I been aware of the facts, now provided to me by the Soviets, I would never have taken such steps. Mr Hayes' obligation to pursue the facts before risking an international incident was entirely neglected. His conduct, which is entirely out of keeping with the highest standards of the US Diplomatic Corps, merits nothing less than his dismissal and return to the United States on the next available transport.
Signed – Joseph Davies, Ambassador
PS See to it that the cases of champagne ordered for the upcoming reception of Soviet dignitaries are kept at a suitable temperature until ready for use.
Minutes after leaving the safe house, the Hanomag truck pulled up beside the building where Yakushkin and the nurse had been killed. Outside its front door, a partisan stood guard. He was tall and bony, with sunken cheeks, narrowed eyes almost hidden under a floppy, short-brimmed cap, and armed with a German MP40 sub-machine gun. He wore a mixture of military and civilian gear: grey wool riding breeches, worn through at both knees and with leather panels along the inside of each thigh, had been tucked into knee-length lace-up boots. His jacket was a lumpy woollen thing, oddly tight about the shoulders but with arms so long the man had been forced to roll them up, revealing the black and white striped lining. The garment had been cinched around his waist with a German leather belt. The aluminium buckle, once emblazoned with an eagle, a swastika and the words Gott Mit Uns', had been ground down and polished smooth, and the shape of a red star cut out of the centre, a common modification among the partisans.
Good morning, Malashenko.' Pekkala nodded to the partisan as he and Barabanschikov climbed down from the truck.
Good morning, Inspector,' replied the man. He stood aside to let Pekkala by, but when Kirov tried to pass, the partisan blocked his way. Not you, Commissar.'
The commissar is helping us,' said Barabanschikov.
Malashenko shot a questioning glance at his commander, and for a moment seemed ready to defy him. First time for everything,' he muttered, as he grudgingly moved out of the way.
Barabanschikov rested his hand upon Pekkala's shoulder. I must leave now, but Malashenko will remain with you for protection.'
I don't need a bodyguard,' said Pekkala.
Consider it as insurance against your ending up as the next man on this assassin's list of victims. Use the safe house for as long as you need it. Our patrols will keep an eye on the place.' With those words, Barabanschikov climbed into the truck and the Hanomag disappeared down the road in a blue cloud of diesel exhaust.
Why haven't the police been informed about this?' Kirov asked Malashenko.
There are no police,' he answered. Not any more.'
Then what about the Red Army? Why aren't they guarding the crime scene?'
Because they haven't found it yet.'
So who reported the incident?'
The locals did. To us. We are the only ones they trust, Commissar, and there is good reason for that.'
Now Pekkala turned to Malashenko. Does anyone at the garrison know that Yakushkin is even missing?'
They knew he was gone from the barracks last night,' replied the partisan, but no one looked for him until this morning. They are aware that he had been spending time with Antonina Baranova, the woman who lived in this house. It won't be long before they find out he was here.'
And where is this woman?'
Upstairs with a bullet in her brain,' Malashenko told him, the same as Commander Yakushkin.'
How long have we got to examine the crime scene?' asked Pekkala.
Five minutes, maybe less. But we need to be gone before then. Once those soldiers realise their commander is dead, they'll arrest every partisan they can lay their hands on.'
We'll be as quick as we can,' Pekkala assured him.
In the front hallway, Kirov almost tripped over the body of Yakushkin's bodyguard, Molodin. No one had touched him. He straddled the narrow space of the hallway, neck bent against the lower part of the wall so that his head was upright. Molodin's left arm had been dislocated in the struggle and now his hand hung poised above his face, fingers strangely clawed, as if to cast a spell upon himself. The dead man's lips had turned a livid purple, as had the tips of his fingers and his skin was grey and patched with blooms of yellowish-blue.
At the top of the stairs, Kirov and Pekkala entered the little dining room where the two murders had taken place. The air smelled of the stew which Antonina had prepared. Congealed fat merged with the blood of the victims, staining the bare wooden floor. Lying in among the broken plates, the knives and forks and the remains of the uneaten dinner, lay the bodies of Yakushkin and the woman.
Kirov gasped as he realised she was the nurse who had treated him at the hospital.
Antonina lay on her back, eyes half open and the side of her skull shot away. Her teeth had been stained red with her own blood.
Pekkala crouched over Yakushkin's body, which lay rigor-mortised like a statue tumbled from its pedestal. The commander lay on his right side, his right arm tucked under him and his left stretched out in front of him, as if reaching towards the gun he had been carrying. The point-blank shot which killed him had done so much damage that if it were not for the insignia on his uniform, he might have been unrecognisable.</ol>