How did you do it, Lazarev?' gasped Kirov.
For many months now, it has been my secret project.'
And what did you plan on doing with it when you finished?'
Exactly what I'm doing now,' he answered. Making sure that the Webley is returned to its proper owner.'
So you didn't believe the stories, either?'
About Pekkala's death?' Lazarev waved a hand through the air, as if to brush away the words he had just spoken. The day they can find a way to kill the Inspector, I'll hang up this coat and go home.'
I will hand this to him personally,' said Kirov, tucking the gun inside his tunic, and it won't leave my sight until then.' He turned to leave.
You are forgetting something, Major.'
Kirov spun around. I am?'
Lazarev slid a fist-sized cardboard box across the counter. A dog-eared paper label, written in English, listed the contents as fifty rounds of Mark VI .455 Revolver ammunition, dated 1939 and manufactured by the Birmingham Small Arms factory. Bullets for the Webley,' he explained.
Where on earth did you find these?' asked Kirov.
The British Ambassador here in Moscow had a rather expensive shotgun made by James Woodward on which the side-lock ejector had broken. Stalin himself referred the Ambassador to me, in order to see if the gun could be repaired. When I had completed the work, the Ambassador offered to pay me, but this,' he tapped the box of bullets, is what I asked for instead. You can tell Pekkala that there are plenty more where these came from. Now,' Lazarev held out his hand, palm up, like a man looking to be paid, before you leave, let's have a look at your own gun, Major Kirov.'
Kirov did as he was told, removing the Tokarev from its leather holster and handing it to Lazarev.
With none of the reverence he had shown to Pekkala's Webley, Lazarev took hold of the weapon. With movements so fast that they were hard to follow, he disassembled the Tokarev and laid it out in front of him. Over the next few minutes, Lazarev inspected the barrel to check for pitting, tested the recoil spring, the trigger and the magazine. Satisfied, he reassembled the gun and returned it to Kirov. Good,' said Lazarev.
I'm glad you approve,' replied Kirov.
I expect you'll need that where you're going. And I hope for your sake that you're right about one thing if you do ever find Pekkala.'
What is that, Lazarev?'
That the Emerald Eye wants to be found.'
Letter forwarded July 16th, 1937 by Samuel Hayes, clerk at US Embassy Moscow, to poste-restante Gotland, Sweden, awaiting arrival of yacht Sea Cloud' on extended tour of Baltic region.
Letter arrived Gotland August 2nd, 1937.
Forwarded to Grand Hotel, Oslo, August 10th.
Forwarded to Hotel Rondane, Bergen, September 1st.
September 30th, 1937, Hirtshals, Denmark. Yacht Sea Cloud'. Memo from Joseph Davies, US Ambassador to Moscow, to Secretary Samuel Hayes, Moscow.
The Ambassador has no comment on the matter of the arrest of William Vasko or on the numerous other arrests of American citizens which have allegedly taken place in recent weeks. He is confident that any arrests are the result of crimes committed and confident, also, that the Soviet authorities were acting within their legal jurisdiction in these cases. Said authorities will process these criminals according to their own judicial system, at which time said authorities will notify the Embassy. Until such time, no action should be taken that could impede the forward momentum of US – Soviet relations.
Signed, p/p for Joseph Davies, Ambassador
Before leaving NKVD headquarters, Kirov climbed up to the fourth floor, where he found Elizaveta, Sergeant Gatkina and Corporal Korolenko in the fire-bucket room, just sitting down to tea.
Sergeant Gatkina slapped her hand upon the empty crate beside her. Perfect timing, Major,'
I have some good news,' announced Kirov, as he took his place upon the rough wooden seat.
A promotion, I hope,' said Gatkina. It's about time they made you a colonel.'
About time!' echoed Corporal Korolenko.
Gatkina turned and stared at her. Must you repeat everything I say?'
Korolenko did her best to look offended, turning up her nose and looking the other way, as if suddenly fascinated by the wall.
Well, no,' began Kirov, it's not a promotion. Not that, exactly.'
Is it scandal?' asked Corporal Korolenko, unable to sustain her indignation. Because I love scandal.'
Then find yourself some general to seduce!' grumbled Sergeant Gatkina.</ol>
I might,' replied Korolenko, sipping at the scalding tea. I just might.'
Spit it out, Major!' commanded Gatkina, oblivious to their difference in rank.
It's about Pekkala,' explained Kirov.
At the mention of the Inspector, a tremor seemed to pass through the room.
What about him?' asked Elizaveta.
I've been given new orders by Comrade Stalin. I'm no longer tied down here in Moscow. I am to search for the Inspector, no matter where it takes me. He told me to scour the earth if I had to! And that is exactly what I intend to do. New evidence has surfaced. I can't talk about it. Not yet. But I can tell you that there's a chance, a good chance, that Pekkala might still be alive.'
For a while, there was nothing but silence.
Tea break is over!' announced Sergeant Gatkina. Back to work, Korolenko.'
But I've just sat down!' protested the corporal.
Then you can just stand up again!'
Muttering, Korolenko left the room, followed by Sergeant Gatkina, who rested her gnarled hand gently on Elizaveta's shoulder. Not you, dear,' she said.
And then it was just Kirov and Elizaveta.
What did I say?' asked Kirov. Why did they leave like that?'
Elizaveta breathed in slowly. Because they know I have been dreading the day that you would bring me news like this.'
News that Pekkala . . . ?'
Yes,' she told him flatly.
But I thought you would be pleased!'
Did it never occur to you that I might wish he would never come back?'
Of course not!' replied Kirov. I don't understand you, Elizaveta.'
Do you know that when Sergeant Gatkina heard you were working with Pekkala, she gave you six months to live?'
Why would she do that?'
Because of something everyone can see. Except you, apparently.'
And what would this be?' he demanded.
Death travels with that man,' she said. He is drawn to it and it is drawn to him.'
And yet he has survived!'
But those around him have not. Don't you see? He is like the lamb that leads other sheep to the slaughter.'
That's ridiculous!' laughed Kirov. Listen to yourself.'
But Elizaveta was not smiling. The first time I looked in Pekkala's eyes, I knew exactly why the Tsar had chosen him.'
And why is that?'
Because of what he is.'
Because of who he is, you mean.'
No, that is not what I mean. If you go out there,' Elizaveta aimed a finger through the wall, in search of that man, I'm afraid you will never come back.'
Even if that were true, what choice do I have? Stalin has given me orders!'
To look for him, yes, but how hard you look is up to you.'
A look of confused disappointment passed like a shadow across Kirov's face. Even if I had no orders, you know what I would do.'
She nodded. And that is why I am afraid.'
With Elizaveta's words still echoing in his head, Kirov returned to the office.
Immediately, he set to work. After clearing everything off his desk, he laid out a map of Ukraine. Kirov's lips moved silently as he whispered the names of places he'd never heard of before. Bolshoi Dvor, Dubovaya, Mintsevo. The vastness of it overwhelmed him.
If Pekkala really is out there, thought Kirov, somewhere in that wilderness of unfamiliar names, then why did he come all this way to Moscow, only to vanish again without ever getting in touch?
Lost in his own mind, Kirov reached instinctively for his pipe and the dwindling supply of good tobacco which he kept in the drawer of his desk. The tobacco was stored in an old leather pouch, so old and frayed that blond crumbs sifted through its broken seams every time he picked it up. Remembering the new pouch given to him by Linsky, Kirov fished it out of his pocket. For a moment, he studied the leather, turning it over in his hand as if the wrinkles of its grain, which curved and wandered like the roads upon the map which lay beneath it, might offer him some clue as to its original owner. Finding nothing, he untied the cord which held the pouch together and turned it inside out, to make sure it was free of dust and grit before loading the pouch with tobacco.
That was when he noticed a small black symbol burned into the hide. It showed what looked like two commas, facing each other. Beneath the commas was a triangle, the tip of which nudged up between the brackets. Under the triangle were the numbers 243.
It was just a tanner's mark, the likes of which he had seen branded on leather saddles when his parents had run a tavern in a village called Torjuk on the road between Moscow and Petrograd.
Travellers arrived at all times of day or night, and it had been Kirov's duty to see to their horses, removing the saddles, brushing them down and feeding them before the travellers departed. Almost every saddle had some kind of stamp in the leather, and sometimes several, placed there not only by the craftsmen who had manufactured the saddle but also by their owners. It had always seemed to Kirov that there were as many different stamps as there were saddles which he lifted from the backs of tired horses.
There was only one person he knew of who might have any idea how to trace such a symbol – a cobbler named Podolski. After the disappointment of his meeting with Lazarev, Kirov held out little hope that this tiny symbol might bring him any closer to Pekkala. But he knew he had to try, if only for the sake of thoroughness. With a groan, he rose to his feet and made his way back downstairs.