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.</ol>
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.