Red Moth (13 page)

‘You are forgetting that we intercepted the painting before he could see it for himself. There is still a chance that he will be fooled by the wallpaper and the radio announcement.’

‘If there is anyone on earth who can see through that charade, it’s Gustav Engel. He covets that amber, just as Peter the Great did before him, for the simple reason that amber exists in defiance of time, holding its beauty even as its owners crumble into dust. Each piece is unique and perpetual, qualities all men long to possess. That’s why a Tsar will pay his weight in gold for a slab no larger than my hand. And that’s why a man like Gustav Engel will not stop searching for that amber, until he has bound his name forever to the greatest treasure in the world.’

‘Thank you‚ Semykin‚’ said Pekkala as he turned to leave. ‘You have been most helpful.’

‘Where shall I send the bill?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘The bill has already been paid‚’ replied Pekkala. ‘Be patient Semykin. Your reward is on its way.’

Late that August afternoon, the members of the 5th Anti-Aircraft Section were sitting in their underwear beside their foxholes, running candle flames up and down the seams of their shirts and trousers to get rid of the lice with which they had become infested. The candle flames sputtered as lice eggs exploded in the heat, filling the air with a smell like burned hair.

The noise of tanks, which they had heard the night before, had ceased. Since no alerts had been sounded, the men assumed it must have been the sound of Russian vehicles.

Only Stefanov remained unconvinced. With gritted teeth, he scanned the trees which saw-toothed the horizon.

A fine rain had begun to fall. Fog drifted across the Alexander Park, gathering in the trees north of the Lamskoy Pavilion.

Commissar Sirko lay in the back of their truck, puffing on one cigarette after another. Smoke slithered from holes in the canvas roof. Now and then, he swatted at mosquitoes with a rolled-up newspaper from his home town of Pskov, which he had been carrying with him, reading and re-reading, since the invasion of Poland almost two years before. The paper was so frail by now that every time he struck an insect, fragments scattered into the air like seeds blown from a dandelion.

This moment of relative peace was interrupted by the rumble of trucks heading east along the Parkovaya road, which ran along the southern edge of Tsarskoye Selo.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Ragozin.

‘Go and find out, Sergeant,’ ordered Commissar Sirko.

Ragozin turned to Barkat. ‘Go and find out,’ he said.

‘Yes, Comrade Sergeant.’ Still in his underclothes, Barkat ran through the woods until he could see passing trucks. For a while he stood there, with his hands gripping the metal railings, watching the vehicles go by and breathing the exhaust-filled air.

Then he spun around and sprinted back to the cabin.

‘All those vehicles are ours,’ said Barkat. ‘It looks as if the whole Division is retreating.’

‘We should get going, too,’ Stefanov told the group.

‘Not so fast,’ growled Sirko. ‘No one has given us permission.’

‘But who do you think they’ll blame,’ demanded Stefanov, ‘if someone else forgot to give the order, and you have done nothing but lie there on your fat arse, without even calling to confirm?’

Barkat and Ragozin stared at Stefanov, slack-jawed with astonishment at the way he had just spoken to a commissar.

Sirko hesitated. ‘Make the call,’ he ordered.

Stefanov was already in motion. Climbing into the back of the truck, he switched on their Golub field radio, a heavy, clumsy thing whose black dials resembled the expressionless eyes of a fish. Stefanov kept one piece of the headphone set pressed against his ear as he tried to get in touch with headquarters. After several minutes of calling into the static, he put the headphones down and reported to Commissar Sirko. ‘No one’s there.’

‘No answer at all?’

‘None, Comrade Commissar.’

Ragozin began putting on his clothes, wincing as the candle-singed cloth burned his skin. ‘That’s it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Stefanov. We should leave while we still can.’

‘Do you have any idea what they will do to me if I let us roll out of here without permission?’ asked Sirko.

‘Look!’ shouted Barkat. ‘The others are going, as well.’

It was true. All across the park, gun crews were packing up their weapons. Truck engines roared to life.

‘Perhaps you’d rather take your chances with the Germans,’ Ragozin told Sirko.

The commissar required no further convincing. ‘Load up!’ he bellowed uselessly, since that was what the men were already doing.

 Gunfire sounded from the woods north of the Alexander Park. A minute later‚ Russian soldiers appeared, having thrown away their weapons as they retreated. ‘The Germans are right behind us!’ shouted the men as they bolted past. ‘They’re killing everything that moves!’

Stefanov dragged the Maxim machine gun over to the tailgate of the truck. ‘Can somebody help me?’ he asked.

The Maxim, its stocky barrel slathered with layers of bamboo-green paint, was too heavy for one man to lift on his own due to its iron blast shield, designed to protect the person firing the weapon, and the three-wheeled carriage mounting, which allowed it to be towed across the battlefield.

‘Just remove the recoil spring and leave the rest for the Germans!’ ordered Ragozin, as he climbed into the back of the ZiS-5. ‘Let them break their backs trying to carry that thing around!’

Meanwhile, Barkat got behind the wheel. He pressed the ignition switch, but the engine would not start.

The sound of gunfire was growing louder.

The truck engine coughed.

‘Oh, please!’ Ragozin clasped his head in his hands.

Stefanov grabbed hold of the Maxim’s towing bar and began dragging it back towards the foxhole.

‘What are you doing?’ barked Sirko. ‘I told you to abandon it!’

‘I know,’ said Stefanov. He pulled the Maxim gun into the foxhole and aimed it in the direction of the German advance.

Ragozin gaped at him, struggling to comprehend. ‘Stefanov, have you gone mad?’

‘They’re coming in too quickly,’ he replied, nervously etching his thumb along the Maxim’s barrel, where a line of bubbles, like varicose veins, had formed beneath the paint. ‘Somebody’s got to slow them down or you’ll never get out of the park.’

A stray bullet struck the cowling of the ZiS-5, tearing a pale stripe into the metal.

The truck’s engine coughed again. This time it started.

Barkat revved the motor. Thick black smoke poured out of the tail pipe.

They heard voices shouting in German, somewhere out among the dense thickets of trees.

‘Stefanov!’ In frustration, Barkat slammed the flat of his hand against the door, making a hollow boom which echoed among the trees. ‘Let someone else slow them down.’

‘There is no one else,’ Stefanov said as he opened an ammunition box and fitted a belt of bullets into the Maxim. ‘Go. I’ll find you.’

Commissar Sirko leaned out of the passenger side, glanced at Stefanov, then sat back inside the truck and shouted, ‘Drive!’

For one more second Barkat hesitated. Then he floored the accelerator and the vehicle began to move, slewing around in the wet grass. In a few seconds, it had disappeared down a weed-choked trail that led to the southern entrance of the estate.

Ahead of Stefanov, among the trees, boots crackled on fallen twigs. He heard whispering and hunched down behind the gun. Stefanov was surprised to find that he was not afraid. Later, if there was a later, he knew the fear would come and, once it had, it might never leave, but for now he felt only a shuddering energy coursing through his body and his thoughts raced back and forth inside his skull, like a school of fish trapped in a net.

A few seconds later, he saw movement in the mist. There was no mistaking them – the grey-green uniforms, the sharply angled helmets. The German soldiers were bunched together in a line. They advanced at a walking pace, rifles held out in front of them as if they meant to sweep aside the mist using only the barrels of their guns.

Next to his boot, a garter snake slipped dryly through the leaves.

Stefanov’s eyes filled with sweat. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. One soldier was walking straight towards him. He seemed to materialise out of the fog.

Clearly now, Stefanov could see the man’s unshaven face, the grey pebbled tunic buttons, the thick, greased leather belt, the creases in the leather around the ankles of the man’s jackboots, the blood-drained flesh beneath his dirty hands as they clenched a Mauser rifle.

The man kept walking.

A few more paces and he would have tumbled into Stefanov’s foxhole.

Stefanov himself felt frozen, unable to comprehend why he hadn’t yet been spotted.

Suddenly the soldier stumbled to a halt. For a moment, he just blinked at the figure hidden in the undergrowth. Then he opened his mouth to cry out.

The Maxim seemed to go off by itself. Everything ahead of Stefanov became a blur of smoke and flickering brass from the empty cartridges which spun into the air and rained back upon him, pinging off the barrel of the gun. Birch and pine branches cascaded down. All the while the cloth belt which had held the bullets spewed from the side of the gun like the shed skin of a snake. Stefanov’s hands ached from the vibration of the gun. His lungs filled with cordite smoke. He had no idea if he was hitting anything.

Then the clanking bang of the Maxim suddenly quit. All Stefanov could hear were the last few empty cartridges ringing as they clattered to the ground.

Stefanov looked down at the ammunition crate. It was empty. The ground on which he knelt was a carpet of spent cartridges, tiny feathers of smoke still drifting from their opened mouths. The Maxim’s barrel clicked and sighed as it began to cool.

In a daze, Stefanov stood up from behind the gun and stumbled out among the twisted dead. He counted twelve of them. Their bodies were horribly torn. More lay back among the bullet-gashed trees. He saw the shiny hobnails on their boots.

Then he saw that one of the soldiers had remained on his feet. The man’s tunic was torn open. Beneath that, from a large wound ripped into his stomach, the soldier’s entrails had unravelled to the ground. Slowly, he took off his helmet, its green paint smeared with a camouflage of mud. He got down on his knees, as if he meant to pray, then carefully gathered up his guts into the shell of the helmet. His lips moved but he made no sound. The man climbed to his feet and started walking back towards the German lines. He had only gone a few paces before he fell face-down on the pine needles.

Shouting echoed through the pines. More soldiers were advancing through the woods.

Stefanov turned and ran, dodging like a rabbit through the trees, and caught up with the truck at the southern end of the park, just as it was passing the Crimean War memorial. He tumbled into the back among the Golub radio, ammunition for the 25-mm and a terrified Sergeant Ragozin.

A few seconds later, they passed beneath the Orlov gates and out on to the main road.

The last Stefanov saw of Tsarskoye Selo was the roof of the Catherine Palace, its grey tiles shimmering through the mist‚ just as it had been when he fled with his father from the tidal wave of revolution.

Later that day, Pekkala reported back to Stalin. ‘I spoke to Semykin. The person we’re looking for does, in fact, appear to be the same Gustav Engel who is mentioned in your file.’

Stalin opened his mouth to speak.

‘There’s more, I’m afraid‚’ said Pekkala. ‘A special task force has been created by the SS for the purpose of removing thousands of art works from the countries occupied by Germany.’

‘I am already aware of that,’ replied Stalin. ‘Since we last spoke, I have learned from one of our agents in the Red Orchestra network, a woman who is based in Königsberg, that, two weeks ago, Gustav Engel gave the order for the Seckendorff Gallery, which is the largest gallery at the Castle, to be cleared and repainted in order to make room for the Amber Panels, which they plan to display there until such time as the museum in Linz has been completed. Engel spent the past two weeks at Königsberg, supervising the refurbishments and yesterday, according to our agent, departed from Königsberg in a truck which had been specially outfitted to transport the panels back to Königsberg. According to the agent, Engel is the lynchpin to Rosenberg’s entire operation in the East and the Amber Room is their top priority.’

‘The German army is already at the gates of Leningrad. We cannot stop them from reaching the Palace . . .’

‘That is true,’ agreed Stalin, ‘but maybe we can put a stop to Gustav Engel.’

‘How is that possible?’

‘It is possible,’ replied Stalin, ‘because I am sending you to get him.’

At first, Pekkala was too stunned to reply. ‘I am not an assassin,’ he finally managed to say.

‘I am not asking you to kill him, Pekkala. I want you to bring him back to Moscow.’

‘And what would be the point of that? If we got rid of him, they would just appoint somebody else.’

‘That is where you are wrong, Pekkala. The Nazis chose Engel precisely because nobody else knows what he knows. With Engel at their head, this organisation will systematically rob our country of its cultural heritage, after which, if we can’t find a way to stop them, they’ll destroy whatever is left. Engel compiled the list of what they’d steal, what they’d ignore and what they would destroy. I need to know what’s on that list, Pekkala, along with the name of the traitor who’s been helping him. Gustav Engel can provide that information, and he will, if you can bring him to me. We can’t save everything, but we can at least deprive them of the treasures they have come to steal. Thanks to you and Major Kirov, we have identified the perpetrator of what may still become the greatest theft in history‚ unless you bring the criminal to justice.’

‘And the fact that he’s behind enemy lines . . .’

‘That is merely an obstacle to be overcome, as you have overcome other obstacles in the past. You are the perfect choice for this task. After all, you know the layout of that palace and, according to your file,’ Stalin lifted up a tattered grey envelope, ‘you even speak German.’

‘That was part of my training with the Okhrana, but, Comrade Stalin, even if it was possible to arrest Engel and to bring him back to Moscow‚ is there enough time to accomplish the mission?’

‘Yes, if we move quickly. It will take Engel a week to travel from Königsberg to the Catherine Palace. When he discovers the wallpaper instead of the panels, he may be convinced that the amber has been removed. Then, again, he may not. In either case, Engel is likely to remain at Tsarskoye Selo until he has conducted a thorough search. This will give you time to apprehend him and then to smuggle him back across our lines.’

‘I can find my way around the palace, Comrade Stalin, but whatever advantage that affords me is lost by the fact that I don’t know what this man Engel looks like.’

‘I have not forgotten this detail, and neither has Lieutenant Churikova. That is why she will be coming with you to the palace.’

‘You cannot ask her to take on a mission like this!’

‘I didn’t have to,’ replied Stalin. ‘She volunteered.’

‘When?’

‘After you left to find Semykin, Kirov drove her back to the Kremlin.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘She told him to. When they arrived at the barracks where Churikova’s company had been quartered, in the hopes of finding someone, anyone, remaining from her signals unit, they found the place deserted. Everyone she had worked with died aboard that train when it was bombed. When Kirov asked Churikova where she wanted to go, she asked to return to the Kremlin. She returned to this office and offered to help in any way she could. I admire this woman, Pekkala. Without her, the task becomes impossible. She knows this. That’s why she volunteered, and why you should be grateful for her assistance.’

‘Send me,’ Pekkala told him. ‘Send Kirov, if you have to, but . . .’

‘But not Polina Churikova?’ Leaning back in his chair, Stalin folded his hands across his stomach. ‘I wonder if that’s really who you’re trying to save.’

‘What do you mean, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Is it her, or is it someone she reminds you of?’

Pekkala felt the breath catch in his throat.

‘I have seen pictures of  Comrade Simonova. The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think? How difficult it must have been to say goodbye to her, that night she boarded the train.’

‘Leave her out of it.’

‘I have, Pekkala. Have you?’

Pekkala stood there in silence. The room was spinning around him – the red curtains, the red carpet – like a whirlpool filled with blood. ‘How on earth do you expect me to get through the German lines, with or without Churikova?’

‘You will require help, of course. Unlike the rest of the population, I do not believe you can simply vanish into thin air and reappear at the location of your choice.’

‘But you don’t know who the traitor is,’ replied Pekkala. ‘It could be someone from the staff who packed up the treasures at the Catherine Palace. Or from NKVD. Even someone from inside the Kremlin. If word gets out about this mission, the Fascists will be waiting for us when we arrive.’

‘I have considered that,’ said Stalin, ‘and I agree that we must choose someone unconnected with our current operations who can spirit you and the lieutenant through the lines.’

‘But the only people who possess those kinds of talents are already working for NKVD.’ He thought of Zubkov, the Tsar’s old Moscow bureau chief for the Okhrana, who had slipped back and forth between countries, both during and after the last war, aided by the ghost-like figures of the Myednikov Special Section.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Pekkala. You’re thinking that if the Bolshevik Secret Service hadn’t hunted down and killed every member of Myednikov Section, including Myednikov himself, those men might have proved very useful at a time like this.’

Pekkala remembered the head of the Bolshevik Secret Service, a Polish assassin named Felix Dzerzhinsky. He was a thin, humourless man with a sharp face and permanently narrowed eyes, who had personally sent thousands of people to their deaths.

‘The fact is,’ said Stalin, ‘Dzerzhinsky was not quite as efficient as he claimed to be.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Pekkala.

‘Not all of Myednikov’s men are dead. One of them survived, an old friend of yours called Shulepov.’

‘You must be mistaken, Comrade Stalin, I know of no one by that name.’

Stalin smiled. ‘Of course not. Shulepov is the name he has used since the Revolution. You might know him better as Valeri Nikolayevich Kovalevsky.’

Pekkala blinked, as if a handful of dust had been thrown into his eyes. ‘That can’t be true. Valeri Kovalevsky has been gone for years.’

As Pekkala spoke the dead man’s name, the face of his old friend loomed into the forefront of his mind.